The Memoir of ArchMage Ra'Jirra
by The Rev. Cardboard Box
Summary: Ra'Jirra the khajiit, Arch-Mage of the Mage's Guild. How did he make it? What happened in the battle against the King of Worms? Why were we lumbered with this — this — FARMBOY?
1. Prologue

**The Chronicle of Ra'Jirra**

_Ra'Jirra is a custom Oblivion class I call "Farmer". By dint of knowing how to keep his implements in shape, he has learned of Armorer and a little bit of Blunt – you'd be surprised how much damage a well-wielded hoe can do. Mercantile, of course, is a must when you're a-haggling at the market. Unsurprisingly, he's gleaned a bit of Illusion as well as Mysticism and Restoration, but when it comes to combat he prefers the bow. Such was the life of the young Ra'Jirra._

-o-o-o-o-

5/1/11: Fresh attempt at separators. Correcting references to Caranya. Additional sanity checks.

-o-o-o-o-

I'm not a writing type, but this is special. It's my book, about me, and it's what really happened as opposed to them bard types. All singing about me being in shining armour and a zillion feet tall and riding the Imperial dragon and all that crap.

This ain't crap. It's the real stuff. And I'm gonna tell it in my own words, even if they ain't all sweet and proper like. Why? Because sure, I have this fancy place now, and the fancy armour which I only wear on special occasions, and all the titles and crap. But I'm a farmer's boy and always have been. Like poor bloody Martin was.

So there's three people you should thank, not me. There's my ma, Hathor, and dad, Ra'Virra, who finally decided to let me go to Cyrodiil. And then there's that wandering mage, guy called Cornelius Othmar. He's the one, really, who saw what I could do.

So anyway, I remember more or less when it happened. It was market day, and now I think about it it's the only market day I can remember clearly. Maybe it's the Divines or something. But I remember I was standing next to a nice girl, I think her name was Merry or Mary or something like that. I was also on a high because dad and me had really pulled one over on some of those poncy sorts who come to buy our stuff – we have an orchard full of apples, oranges, berries and melons and stuff. Great for knocking up potions for getting your energy back. When we left that day, we had a few less pieces of fruit and some recipes for what they call preserves – it'd meant spending up on flour and sugar and all the jars, all on the quiet of course, but that's how merchanting works. Getting the better deal while letting the other dork think he's got it.

But anyway, me and Mary were watching this Cornelius bloke putting on a show – Mary was watching anyway, I was plotting a course to the most private haywain so's nobody would see, at first, but I found myself getting more interested in the mage's doings. Now a lot of what he was playing at was bloody flashing lights, I know, but I was beginning to figure it out somehow. Those of you who're real mages will know all this, and if you don't, you can bloody well ask. As Carahil once said to me, "there is no knowledge without power", and who doesn't want power?

Well, I was mulling the concepts over, and I must have been mumbling under my breath or something, because next thing I know I was literally glowing! Even Cornelius stopped and stared at me as I slowly went red. Easy for him, because everyone else had backed away from me as though I was deadly.

"Whoops!" he cried, "so sorry my boy! Come round the back, I'll fix you right up!" And down he came and pulled me away by the arm!

Anyway, round the back he had this caravan thing, and once inside he turned to me, said something that seemed to literally blow the spell off me. Then he just stared.

"Why did you cast that spell?" he asked me a bit angry like.

"I didn't mean to!" Did I sound like a kitten or what? "I was mulling over what you were doing, I guess I was muttering to myself, I've never cast it before!"

Well, his eyebrows went fair through the ceiling. "I find that hard to believe," say he, "And the dispel I cast on you now, how did that feel?"

"Um... like it blew a sort of... um, cobweb off me," I said. Then, "That's what an enchantment is like, eh? Like a sort of pattern or web that sits on top of your life, um..."

"That's enough," he says, and he's not so mad now. "I wasn't expecting that much wisdom from a farmer's boy. Ever had proper magickal training?"

"No sir, just a couple cantrips to light fires and heal small wounds, sir. And making potions."

So he just sits there and ponders. "You're a natural," says he, "a natural bloody mage. I better talk to your folks, it'd be a damn shame to let a talent like yours go to waste."

So after that I leave the caravan and there's my olds looking kinda relieved and scared and dad about ready to have a go at Cornelius. But he has a few words to my dad and next thing I remember clearly is ma and dad and me and Cornelius at home that evening, finished off a supper of bread and soup listening to Cornelius talk.

"Your son's a natural," he kicks off, "I'm doing my show and next thing I know this boy, and I thought he's planning a tryst with that girl next to him, casts Starlight on himself."

"What's that?" dad asks. I was turning red, but then dad adds, "Starlight I mean."

"It makes you glow for a time," Cornelius explains, "so you don't need to carry a torch. Well, I thought he'd done it on purpose, so I hustled him into my caravan to dispel it and give him a piece of my mind, but that's when I found out he's a natural. He should be in the Guild."

Well, dad just looks at him. "Why?"

"Why? Because he worked out how to cast a spell without training! When I dispelled it, he told me what it felt like to him as though he's already learned about the school of Mysticism! I tell you, this boy's a natural – put him in the Guild and he'll make you proud!" And he looks at me as if to say _you better bloody do so too._

Dad's about to say something, but then the door bangs open and in bursts the priest. Let me describe him. Julius Maro, old, boozy, fat, thick as three short planks and up himself so far he can see daylight again.

"What is this man doing here!" Like I said, up himself. Nothing he likes better than to bang on about the Nine as though they're a pack of marauders who can only be held off by doing what he says. And woe betide you if he sees you dozing, or being bored, in his chapel. I hated his guts obviously.

"He has been invited here." Dad didn't like him either. Especially not after that business about tithes. "You weren't."

"This man is a menace to your souls! A traitor to the Nine! A dabbler in the dark arts! He should be shunned by all right-thinking men!" Maro was wobbling with rage. He was good at that.

"Says you," dad replies, "But he's not after our souls. He's told us our son's a natural mage."

Now Maro turns purple, so it looks like he's got a big wobbly blackberry for a head.

"Monster!" Looking back I think he was trying to bellow really impressive like, but all he did was squeak from the top end and trumpet from the lower one and his guts rose about three inches. No really. I couldn't hold a snort, and then Cornelius giggled, and then my parents broke up. And all the bloody priest could do was sputter about necromancers and daedra worshipers and other phrases.

And then he pulls his copy of "One Command, Nine Divines" out of his robe and bangs me on the head with it!

"I invoke the mercy of the Nine!" he starts going off, "Of Akatosh, of Dibella, of Stendarr, of-"

Now Maro didn't like us and we didn't like him. If you're an Imperial, you got to understand a lot of you are real bastards to us beastfolk. Knock it off. You're beholden to one now, remember?

Anyway back then he got my dad's fist in the mush and then his boot in the arse and off they go with dad yelling that good folks don't go around bashing sons on the head in front of their parents and Maro sputtering back that we were all something or other as he wobbled off.

"You'll have to excuse our priest," he explained to Cornelius, "he's stupid and a cunt."

"I guessed that," Cornelius replied, "anyway, as I was saying, he's got a brain on him that it'd be a shame to waste. Now," and he pulls out his purse and takes out about fifty bloody septims. "I'll put that toward getting him to the guildhalls in Cyrodiil. They're the bloody best."

Well, ma and dad look at him, at the coins on the table, and then at me.

And I look back and think that if I go, I'll be leaving everything I know behind. And if I stay, Maro at least will make my life a misery, and I'll never know what I missed out on. But the fact that dad was willing to have a go at a priest about this pretty much settled the deal.

"I can come back if it doesn't work out, right?" I asked.

"Of course, son," dad says, and I can't remember right what happened after that except there was a lot of drinking and a lot of tears. Whenever dad called me 'son', it was always when he was really proud of me or being kind. 'Boy' was what he used when I was in the shit.

And then a few weeks later I was sailing on the Coy Carp to Anvil.


	2. In which Our Hero Arrives in Anvil

**Chapter 1: In which Our Hero Arrives in Anvil and Joins the Mage's Guild**

It was a nice evening in Anvil when the ship docked. The captain told me he'd be off as soon as his cargo was unloaded, so I made sure I had everything, which was pretty much a few coins in my purse and the clothes on my back. To get passage on the _Coy Carp_ had required me to sell bloody everything else.

"It were good to have ye on board," says the captain, and who could blame him? I'd been able to fling a few fireballs and swing a decent axe when those pirates had attempted to board us, and then the potions I'd made afterwards were pretty well received. "Ye sure ye don' wanna set sail wi' us?"

"Sorry," says I, "I'm after the Mage's Guild."

He just shook his head and tried to convince me a life on the ocean wave was what I wanted a bit more, but sod him. He had my gear and most of my coin, didn't he?

Anyway, there I was standing on the dock wondering where to go, looking at the castle, and thinking about the Temple of the One for some reason. Maybe it was because Maro once mentioned it when he was in a halfway sane state. The guff was that people had life-changing experiences there sometimes, but my dad just said afterwards it was "just silly buggers getting all worked up."

Anyway, I'm thinking about all this, and let's be honest, Anvil's a nice little town. All white stone, red tile roofs and blue-green doors, I think they're faced with bronze or copper or something. Like I said, quite pretty. Not like Bravil. That was a shithole then and it still was last time I was there.

So this guard comes up to me. "Don't see many new faces these days. Anyway, can I help you?"

Now, I'd have some not so nice experiences with guards later on, so this bloke was a bit unusual for his sort. Anyhow, I'm not one of those writer clowns who then fills pages with boring conversations. Let's just say that I got him to tell me where the nearest Mage's Guildhall was (they had one right in Anvil!), learned a bit about the local scenery – which basically boils down to "stay above ground", and then there was the business with the chapel.

"What's this about the chapel being attacked anyway?" I ask, "Some drunk bugger go nuts in there?"

"Don't be an idiot!" Looks like he was about to pop me one, but pulled himself together. "We don't know _who_ or _what_ slaughtered everyone in the chapel and desecrated the altars. Then next thing we know, that man calling himself the Prophet turns up railing on about Pelinal Whitestrake and who knows what else. Load of tosh if you ask me, but..."

"Ah," says I, "Whatever bastards did it, they'll be found out. Magic leaves trails, right? Like footprints."

Guard just shrugs and says, "Well, not even the castle and guild mages found anything. You sure you want to join those layabouts?"

So of course I ask him what he means. To make a long story short, the guild wasn't a hundred percent, even after successfully ousting most of the conjurers and necromancer types. Worked out why later. But anyway necromancy's a nasty business, and conjuration seems to involve daedra most of the time, and they're dangerous bastards. I'd find just out how much later.

Anyway after that he went off on his rounds, and I went looking about. Nothing much happened at first, except I fell in the harbour trying to work out if it was a rock or a sunken chest I was looking at. It was a rock. Bugger.

Now being wet as a shag, and with only a few coins in my pocket, I was dead certain that I wouldn't get a place to sleep that night. Nobody wants a wet Khajiit anywhere near them. Hell, _I_ was a wet Khajiit and I didn't want to be near me. So after squelching past one of the doomstones – it's on a hill beside the harbour and has an engraving of The Lady on it, and saying a little prayer at the nearby shrine of Mara, I found myself chasing deer up to Hrota Cave. Now I was still damp and wanted a bit of shelter and went in.

I've no idea who was inside the cave, but they sure as hell weren't there any more. Either that or they left in a damn hurry, there were still fires and torches burning. Now deciding that whoever lived here was a) probably up to no good and b) wasn't coming back, I burgled the place and beat it.

Put yourself in my shoes. I had just the wet, peasanty clothes on my back and a few septims. That was all. The caves were, I was told, either full of bandits or unfriendly critters. So of course I looted the place. Salvage!

-o-o-o-o-

So anyway the next day I fronted up to Carahil at the guild looking flash in burgundy and with a heavier purse!

If Carahil were a horse, she'd have the bit in her teeth most of the time. For a high elf she was a looker too, young, but those eyes were too big. Anyhow, we fell to talking about magic for a bit, and let me tell you, she was good at getting info out of me. She raised her eyebrows when I mentioned Cornelius, and had me go over the market incident a couple of times. And we really hit it off regarding Maro. We both agreed he was an arsehole and Carahil went off on how people like Maro the Moron and someone called Alessia Ottus were the reason she'd really gone to town about getting the necromancers out.

Anyway, she says she'd be pleased to have me join and I says I'm happy to accept, and then I make my mark and now I'm an Associate.

"Now, in order for you to gain access to the Arcane University," she says, "you'll need to perform a task at each of the guildhalls to receive a letter of recommendation. Only once you have gained a letter of recommendation from all the guildhalls will you be admitted into the University."

"Sounds fair," I say, "And according to the book here, each hall specialises in a school of magic, so I'll be learning as I go, right?" I haven't changed that and I'm not going to. Travel broadens the mind.

"Exactly," says she, "We can start now, if you wish. But I warn you, this isn't a frivolous task like, oh, those fools in Bruma might give you, this is a matter of life and death."

She looks at me and I look at her. Like I said, bit in the teeth. And here I am just signed up barely five minutes ago, fresh off the boat, no gear, no bearings, no clue (really.)

"Sorry," says I, "Don't think I'm up to it yet."

"Wise of you," says an old dunmer in the next room over. Carahil didn't like that. She didn't seem to like me piking either.

"That's... disappointing, Associate." ("Sensible" says the dunmer quietly.) "Perhaps you're right... take a day or two to prepare and see me again."

And she turns away but I'm sure she muttered "coward" under her breath. Bit in the teeth, or did I already say that?

So anyway I went next room over and spoke to the dunmer bloke, name of Selas. Turns out he's the alchemy master in the guild, and I was able to buy a mortar, pestle and alembic from him. "You were a sensible one there," he says, "Carahil tends to be, um, let's just say she likes getting her way."

"Well, she'll get it," says I, "once I'm good enough to give it to her."

He just grins at me and there's this rattling noise from Carahil's direction and about then I decide to beat it because what I said goes two ways and I don't think she likes either of 'em.

-o-o-o-o-

I still remember those first days. But I'll try keeping this short. Now some people write their memoirs way to long about what hole they popped into, and they went this way then that way and killed this and offed that and it's incredibly boring. I've been in and out of heaps of holes and I hope the detail-obsessive types don't mind if I skip all but the most interesting bits.

So anyway I bugger off up the main road that leads to Kvatch and Skingrad, and at first amused myself by setting some highwayman on fire and nabbing his gear. He had a decent iron axe, which came in handy because I startled a bloody boar which didn't take to me at all. I continued towards an old fort, dropping a couple deer, and then froze, because I could see a skeleton.

Turns out there were three of the bastards wandering around outside, and two more in the fort walls, and one was an archer. So now I had some axes to flog and a bow. I'd learn later that Carahil thinks weapons are a sign of incompetence, but she might like to change her mind on that. It's basic sense. Either you cook up heaps of restoration potions, or you have something to fall back on. Magic runs out, and if you're silenced, well, like I said. Fallback.

After knocking around inside the fort, which I learned was called Crowhaven, and being attacked by wolves and rats, I ran across something that I decided not to mess with and got the hell out of there.

After that, I headed shoreward, towards the huge ruin known as Garlas Matatar. It was raining, and I have to say I was creeping carefully around. And it was just as well. There was something down there.

At first, I thought it was some_one_, since it looked like a man in armour of a sort I didn't recognise. He seemed to be guarding some sort of altar with stuff on it, and here I was with just some toasted fur crap and a bow and arrow. And, OK, an axe. Against a guy so heavily armoured I couldn't see any skin?

Well, I crept up until I could see the bugger's head, arrow nocked. He didn't even notice. The arrow went straight in from about ten feet off. Dented the "armour" like paper, and the thing dropped like a stone. Later I'd learn the bastards were summonings called Aurorans, but hey, I was a mere kitten, right?

Another one fronted up and had much the same happen to it. I tried pulling the armour off but no joy there – that's when I realised what the buggers were. Nevertheless I scored a magical axe and some other goodies, like welkynd stones. Great things – you can use them to replenish your magic. Just remember what's knocking around in those Ayleid ruins but.

Anyway, after that I went half-walking and half-swimming back to Anvil, and the wierdest thing happened. I'd fallen in the water again and next thing I know, there's a scamp floundering at me. I have an idea where it and its conjurer came from though, and frankly the guy was bowled fairly quickly. In his gear was that Robe of Deflection I have in the display case next to the main door, between the mage's robe (yeah, same guy's) and the necromancer's. Saved my hide plenty of times.


	3. Ra'Jirra gets his first recommendation

**Chapter 2: In which Ra'Jirra gets his first recommendation**

After dropping off my excess axes and pissing Varel Morvayn off by not spending heaps, I finally fronted up to Carahil.

"Well, Associate? Are you ready _now?_" Right between the teeth, or have I said that already? Never mind. Bears repeating.

"Yeah," says I, "Think I can give it a decent go now."

I think she wanted to kill me for insolence or something, but what she told me was that I was going to an inn pretty much north of Anvil to flush out a bad bastard who was doing over merchants. I said yes ma'am and got out of there and stopped briefly to talk to a local farmer lass. Maeve the Buxom, although I didn't notice, because she was in a right strop over her husband.

Seems the dumb bastard wanted adventure. Well, adventure involves bloody hard yakker, especially when the adventure sends you to a marauder lair in Fort Strand, and I admit that after a fair bit of fighting I piked. Not good enough.

But anyway, I fronted up at the Brina Cross around midnight looking for the bird I was to contact. Well, there she was, but this Altmer bint had her well and truly bailed up. So while she was flapping her gums, I saw the innkeep about a bed. I mean, it was late, and he asks me if I'm a merchant. Well, I says yes, since one of the things I had to do back in the day was flog loot and buy better gear, right?

So I'm about to toddle off, when the Altmer introduces herself – Caminalda, she was – and did I say I was a merchant? And all the time the Breton I was supposed to talk to is trying to kill me with a look. So I manage to scrape Caminalda off and head for bed, and in she comes!

"You were supposed to talk to me first!" she kicks off.

"Couldn't talk to you with Caminalda bailing you up," says I, "Besides, I'm the bait anyway, right?"

So she looks at me and nods, "Ah, yes, you're quite right. You are supposed to pass yourself off as a merchant and spend a night here. Then you head on to Skingrad. A fellow battlemage and myself will follow you."

"Why not Kvatch?" asks I.

"Haven't you heard? Something's damaged the gates, and they're jammed shut. I've heard workmen banging away inside trying to fix them, but it's been weeks now. So your story is Skingrad."

Now, to this day I've never got a straight answer about bloody Kvatch. The gates were closed for all sorts of reasons: siege practice, mechanical problems, plague, or some moron's spell going wrong. In once case I heard all the above mixed together. Not even the survivors can say. Still, I hear the rebuild's finally started.

"Fine. Skingrad it is," says I, then a bit louder, "Well, I'm sorry ma'am, but these are all I have. Perhaps when I return from Skingrad, but for now I need rest. Good night!"

She just grinned tightly and said, "Don't overdo it."

Well, Caminalda had me kick around the inn for a whole day before she made her move. So out I went, and sure enough it was bloody nosey Caminalda crapping on honest merchants! Incidentally much of her gear got flogged to Gunder at Northern Goods & Trade in Skingrad. Good bloke he is. Big square Nord. Right across from the Mage's Guild.

But before that I had to head back to Anvil to report success, and I did so by the scenic route, since I was also looking for flax seeds and things to make restore magicka potions with them. Instead I found a pack of necromancers in another Ayleid hole, Garlas Agen. By this time I had more stuff to piss Morvayn off with. Carahil loved me, so that balanced out I guess. So anyway after that I decided that the best thing to do was to piss off myself to Skingrad and find new folks to annoy.

My route was all about what makes restore magicka potions with flax. I mean, venison or wolf meat make feather potions, and useful they are. But I was saving my welkynd stones, and I didn't hit pay dirt until Sandstone Cave. There was a dead adventurer in there with a pair of Dwemer boots and some other goodies. I bet Gunder's sold them by now.


	4. Where Ra'jirra has a skinful of Skingrad

**Chapter 3. In which Ra'jirra has a Skinful of Skingrad**

Now while I was waiting for Gunder to open – his place is Colovian Traders, across from the guildhall, I heard someone hissing at me. It was a Bosmer, who kept looking at my left ear while telling me that he had to see me behind the chapel at midnight. Then he took off while looking over his shoulder. I just shook my head and swapped loot for Gunder's money. I also asked about Mr Wierdo, and had to sweet-talk the info out of him. Apparently the drongo's Glarthir, and as far as I know he still fronts up behind the Skingrad chapel waiting for me. Stuff him.

The first Skingrad mage I met was an Argonian woman called Druja. She was fairly snotty at first, but apparently it's because Adrienne Berene, the guild head, is a bit vague at times, absent-minded and all that. She also asked if I'd seen someone called Erthor; no, I hadn't. One barmy Bosmer at a time for me.

And wouldn't you know it! Adrienne wanted me to find Erthor! Oh well. Erthor's lucky day. I ended up asking around and learned where the dopey sod had been exiled to – Bleak Flats Cave, and as it turned out because Adrienne had sent him there.

"You might like to remind her," says Druja, "that it wass _her_ idea." And she sort of looks upstairs with contempt as she says that. So I did, and Adrienne ended up giving me another fire spell. Now this one wasn't a quick blast of heat, it was a slower burn. This is something to know: spells that hit hard and fast need more power than spells that kind of gnaw at the victim's ankles. Even if they do pretty much the same damage. Just like choosing between hitting someone with a bloody great battle-axe as opposed to wearing them down one dagger-stroke at a time.

I also picked up some other deadly spells of death as well, but as it turned out they were bloody useless. When you're messing with the undead, you need fire. I got into the drill of smacking zombies with an arrow from cover first, then launching fireballs. Seems they were bailing up Erthor and he couldn't get out. And he wouldn't tell me what the hell was going on!

The rest of the guild were as tight-lipped. Druja wouldn't say either, but she relaxed a bit when I showed her the nirnroot. Apparently Sinderion's the resident brewer of the classier establishment in town, so I popped into the basement where Sinderion resided.

-o-o-o-o-

Sinderion was another bloody Altmer who had the pallor that comes from staying indoors all the bloody time, and a cough that might have had something to do with the fumes from his assorted brewings and experiments. He wasn't pleased to see me at first, but his eyes fair fell out when he saw all the nirnroots I collected! "Where did you get all these?" he cries.

"Anvil," says I, "and around the coast there. Usually where there's rocks and water."

"Remarkable!," says he, "Tell me, can you find some more?" and off he goes explaining about an old book he had which turned out to have a recipe using nirnroot in it. For a few hours running around, I have to admit I was interested; the most I could do with them was make draining poisons.

I took a bit of a scenic route. Headed out to Bleak Flats again then cut east towards a copse Sinderion'd marked for me. Unfortunately there was a goblin cave en route – nasty little buggers – then I headed back south. I ran across Derelict Mine, but when I saw more gobs – dead, this time, and praise unto the Imperial Legion for that! - I thought "stuff it" and headed south and ran across a cave labelled Bloodcrust. No gobs this time – it was bloody vampires! I didn't know, I thought "oh, bandits" and didn't change my mind until I got a good look at the first one. Then I downed a fresh feather potion, lifted the most promising loot and beat it.

I was already starting to feel a bit strange, and Agnete the Pickled cut ceremony short, saying, "Now get outa here! I'd rather be pickled than sick!"

So what do you do when lurgi strikes? Well, for some reason I immediately thought of the chapel. Maybe I didn't have a potion. I can't remember. I do know that the priest attendant gave me the stink-eye all the time I was there. I mean, by the Nine, I was scared, of course a man runs to the altar!

-o-o-o-o-

So I turn to leave and almost walk straight into this Redguard guardsman with a "don't muck me around" expression. A bit like dad when he'd caught me out in a lie, or wagging on my chores.

"A little bird tells me you've been asking about Glarthir," he states. Not asks, states. In that way which asks if you want to get caught in an obvious lie. Maybe he'd taken lessons from dad.

"Damn right," says I, "There I am waiting for Gunder to open shop, and he fronts up and says meet me round the back of the chapel here. And he's never seen me before, as that was my first time in Skingrad! Of course I try to find out who this drongo is."

"Well," says he, "since you've been honest with me, let me tell you: Glarthir's crazy."

"Say no more," says I, "I'll stay away from the dork."

"No, no!" says he, "I keep an eye on him, and I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know if he asks you to do anything strange. Just ask for Dion if you can't find me."

So I'm all yes sir and three bags full sir and I decide that I need to get away from Skingrad sharpish. I don't like vampires and I don't like hanging around potentially dangerous crazy people. Then again writing this I reckon you could lump a fair few of the Mage's Guild in the latter group.

Anyway Sinderion was delighted I had the ten nirnroot he needed, so I decided some nice quiet foraging was in order. I headed south past Bloodcrust to an Ayleid riun, Silorn, which sits at the headwaters of the river keeping Cyrodiil and Valenwood from banging into each other. No nirnroot, so I wobbled north via Howling Cave (undead), Fort Vlasterus (vampires again), and finally reached Grayrock Cave which I rested up in after clearing away some imps.


	5. Ra'Jirra comes to the Imperial City

**Chapter 4. In which Ra'Jirra comes to the Imperial City**

After a couple hours I woke up feeling refreshed, stronger, smarter and actually nimbler. There's three things to thank for this: lugging all my worldly goods around; cooking up a storm of potions; and bowplay. Sure, I knew a fair whack of spells, but like I said before. Backup plans. Then again, I'd also twigged that having a few bits of armour were better than none.

Anyway I was so refreshed, I got cocky and fell over the edge into the lower level of Grayrock and had to exit via the Shambles! More damn imps and some poor bugger who'd carked it. Nice magic axe.

About this time I noticed that I was getting a bit heavy-laden. I had a think and decided the best thing was to take off to the Imperial City, flog some loot and find out about long-term housing. Lugging gear is nice for building up strength, but at the same time having a fixed place to call home means you don't end up all queasy and farting from feather potions. Also I'd heard of the big city and wanted to see it close up.

Once I got out of Grayrock – would've been 4 Heartfire by now – I mucked around the Great Forest for a bit after steel-blue entoloma. Mix those mushies with flax seeds and you have a restorative for magicka – just what I wanted! I also wasted time trying to follow a rumour about the ruin of Ceyatatar having a secret entrance. All I found was more mushrooms and an angry bear.

So I finally say bugger that and take off down the road and pretty soon I'm at the Wawnet Inn in Weye. Decent place, like most inns it's dark, slightly burnt-smelling, with the bar area downstairs and the rooms above.

"Can I interest you in a bed?" asks Nerussa the publican, "or maybe some wine?" Well! That's a bit unusual, thinks I, but at least it doesn't involve dissembling or homicidal magi. Just a friendly barmaid – even if she's another bloody Altmer.

Anyhow, Nerussa's pretty for an Altmer and apparently something of a wine buff. "What I really need for my collection is Shadowbanish Wine," she explains.

Well! Over at Vlasterus I'd run across a couple of old bottles, and out of the pack they come. You should have seen her face! Eyes went almost as big as her chest and I'm dead certain she dribbled a bit too. Anyhow she asked me to find more, wanted half a dozen as it happened. So after that I thought for a bit and took off for the Merchant's District of the big IC.

I waded as far as the entrance of Merchant's Inn before my third-to-last feather potion conked out. I needed another one to get to my purchased bed, and the the following morning my last one tided me over long enough to flog a marauder's armour and some flawless rubies and diamonds to an old Redguard called Rhossan. "These are great," she told me as she put them aside, "I need them for a special order this week." Then she grinned at me. "The rest I can gouge that dick Hamlof at Red Diamond for!"

Speaking of dicks, that Orc at Smash and Slash gouged me for a trade-in on a silver war axe. I'd wanted one ever since I saw a big silver battle-axe in Morvayn's. I think he wanted to belt me over the head with it at the time.

After that I popped into the Chamber of Commerce and learned I could score a dwelling not _in_ the city (damn), but outside it in the Waterfront District. A shack for four grand. The price sounded reasonable, after all it _was_ in the big city, so I told the bird I was speaking to that I'd go scrape up the dosh and be back. She looked so grateful when I said that she almost wept. Hardly surprising, since according to her all she ever hears is complaints. Nowadays, all _I_ seem to hear is complaints too.

So, my first real impressions of the Imperial City, as opposed to oh-gods-where's-the-nearest-bloody-hostelry, were of... well, unity is the first word I can think of. The whole city is contained in the walls of an ancient Ayleid stronghold, which in turn is divided into six parts around the central tower. All the buildings are equally uniform, and made as big blocks with several houses or shops inside. It's all very defensible, but I found it confusing at first. Unless you know where you're going, and look for signs, you can go round in circles.

The other thing is the damn crowds. Since the Imperial City is where the Emperor lived, and thus the centre of Imperial might and power, everyone wants to be there. At the time I thought it was so that they could grovel to the Emperor when he popped out for some fresh air, a beer and a pie. Apparently he didn't do that much and now he can't do that at all so folks just settle for whichever of the Council can't beat them off fast enough.

A crowd where I come from consists of the Lord and Lady of the manor, whichever visitors they have, and, well, us plain folk, entrepreneurial types hawking food, drink and entertainment, and who or what is the main attraction. An Imperial City crowd is pretty much like that only it feels big enough to fill Lake Rumare, and there's more different sorts of nobs, merchants, plain folk, beggars and guards. And a lot more out-of-town folk like myself getting shunted hither and yon, and watch your purse!

The Arboretum is an entire district to itself and is lovely. Nobody saw me pluck a few entolomas, and they didn't seem fussed when I finally gave in to curiosity and popped a manhole to the sewers. I won't go into details there, but I ended up coming out on the east side of the island. After a nasty incident involving mistaking a mountain lion for a deer, I said "playtime's over" to myself and took off for Bravil.

-o-o-o-o-

This journey was where I found the unicorn some have seen me ride. Close by the road, south of the Inn of Ill Omen, you can see an oddly blighted patch; Harcane Grove. It was here I found the unicorn, and rode it all the way to Bravil.

The problem is that it always manages to escape any cinching and start heading back to the darn grove. One time I parked up on Niben Bay and next thing I know it's in the drink and steaming north for home!

And if you're thinking I'm stalling before telling what happened in Bravil, and why someone always whistles lewdly when I leave the guildhall there, you're right.

But if you saw me riding a unicorn, you probably weren't as drunk as they think.


	6. Where the Bravil Whistle came from

**5. In which Our Hero gets his Recommendation from the Bravillians**

My experiences in Bravil led me later on to pass the Safe, Cautious And Responsible Experimentation (SCARE) Act. Henantier's still a bit toey about it, but I need to explain why.

First off, Bravil is as bad as that stuck-up Ottus bint who writes all those guide books says. It's damp, dull, depressing. Mind you, so's the count. So I spend a night at Silverhome On the Water and front up at the Guild later that morning. Just one problem. Nobody either knows who to talk to, or wants to talk about, recommendations.

Also, while I was upstairs looking for the guildmaster, I found a disturbing note threatening an unnamed Argonian woman, probably Kud-Ei. The wording stank of necromancer.

In Skingrad, Erthor had been doing something that landed him under siege by zombies, and also exiled to a cave. Now here in Bravil was a death threat from necromancers. What the bloody hell was going on?

As it turns out, Kud-Ei was the only Argonian as well as the headwoman of the hall, but she had a problem: Henantier. He was the sort who was so in love with being _the_ guy to wow the world that he'd do dumb things at home without any supervision.

Some (all right, _most_) of the faculty here at the Arcane University still give me arseholes about it, but I'm working on setting up a specialised research facility out in the eastern wopwops where the more daring experimenters can kill themselves without taking out an entire town. _And_ they'll have to log everything they do. There's several reasons for that. First, a supervised mage is more likely to survive. Second, if they don't, all isn't lost, we'll have their notes and learn from their mistakes. Finally, I reckon the Legion's battlemages need a decent training ground. Also they can be roped in if the experiments get loose.

Now Henantier was a daring mage of the old school and a prize idiot anywhere and the silly bugger had tried to turn his dreams into a sort of proving ground. When Kud-Ei showed me to his house, I could smell not only the fact that he'd crapped himself, but also fear. Turns out the silly sod had been trapped in his dreams for three days.

Kud-Ei gave me a copy of the amulet he'd cooked up, and I popped it on and hit the hay and what happened next I don't want to let on. Let's just say Henantier had lost some of his marbles and was too addled to find them himself. So I had to go get them.

Dreams are important. There's a mage I knew who tried to sleep without dreams, and last anyone's seen of him he was entering Sheogorath's realm by that gate by Bravil, crying out for his dreams to come back. Again, the silly sod didn't have an assistant to knock him unconscious after going too far.

Wandering around in a distorted dream that isn't yours – just don't. Unless you have permissions.

Anyway, I wasn't exactly smelling like a rose when he and I awoke either. Things were awkward for him, and why not? All gone up in his face and he needed to change and wash. So did I.

So away went Kud-Ei and I back to the guildhall, and I was still a bit muzzy and wondering why passers-by were giving me strange looks. In we go and the members give me strange looks and since most of 'em are women there's giggling too.

"Are you all right?" asks Ayalie and her chin.

"I think so," says I, "why?"

"Well," says she, "you seem to be wounded, and... um..."

So I look down and yep, I've got some nice scrapes from where dream minotaurs hacked at me, I can cope with that. But I can see this because I'm now stark bollock naked!

Well, I went and shot out the door and round the back where I'd dropped my gear off, found my shielding robe, but too late. Ever since then, when I leave the Bravil guildhall, somebody female whistles lewdly.

Every single time.

But anyway, Kud-Ei had another problem, a mage called Ardaline. Apparently she was being pestered by a local Dunmer swain who I'll call Drongo, to save him embarrassment. And now Ardaline had lost her mage's staff, which are pretty important more as symbols of office than anything else, but usually have a useful enchantment on 'em. Kud-Ei wanted me to pump Drongo for any information he had.

So I found him in Silverhome, used a scroll Kud-Ei gave me (smart girl) and nearly clocked the stupid bugger. He'd stolen the staff all right. But he'd flogged it to his mate Dopey in the Imperial City!

Now I'm a law-abiding fellow and didn't want to try out the popular idea of recruitment for the Dark Brotherhood, so I thanked him kindly for the advice and got the hell out of town. I stomped around Bravil County for a day or two doing alchemy and other stuff to cool off. Once I was halfway sane, I went back to the big smoke and located Dopey's residence, after trotting around the district three times.

If only he'd put up a sign or something eh? _Residence of Dopey the Dumner, Stolen Staffs a Specialty, Enquire Within._

It cost me a scroll, several septims of sweet-talking and another couple hundred to get the damn thing back to Kud-Ei and Ardaline. By this time I was fed up and stomped on down to Leyawiin.


	7. Dirty Deeds in Leyawiin

**6. Dirty Deeds in Leyawiin**

Apparently some people think Leyawiin's nastier than Bravil, and having made my way down there I can understand. The western road was chocka with bandits – but the alternative is to cross the Imperial bridge near Pell's Gate and brave whatever's on the eastern bank.

Anyway, jaguars. Nasty bits of work, and I'm a cat person.

But I survived and entered Leyawiin on Tirdas 11 Heartfire, felling that bit more smarter, wiser, even tougher. I was also muttering to myself about getting a better shield spell or finding one for invisibility or chameleon I could actually _use_. Affording it would also be nice.

After spending the night at Five Claws Lodge I fronted up at the guild and was directed to Dagail, the master of mysticism in the Guild. I didn't know that at the time and fronted up to a scholarly Bosmer with a distressed expression, poring over _A Life of Uriel Septim_ as though her life depended on it.

"You seek wisdom from me, child?" she asks, "Ah, no. You seek words. Words are... difficult. They come and go. The... the voices, though. So loud they are, they... they drown out of... of words... words."

And there I am watching this bird's hands waving away and thinking, what in Oblivion? It was like she was struggling to string her thoughts together.

"Without my amulet, my stone to... to lock the voices... voices away, the words will never come... come and stay." She took a breath, scrunched up her eyes, then, "Would you lift your hands to help another, to help me find the words?" came out in a rush.

Well, I have a think, and realise that she's in a bad way and asking for help. "All right," says I, "What must I do?"

Her mouth flaps a bit, and she finally manages to get out, "You speak, yet I cannot hear. You... you listen, yet I cannot... speak. When the voices... voices grow quiet, then shall our... time... time be at hand." And her face scrunches up like she's trying to think with Sheogorath singing in her ear. Then she brightens up a bit but there's still this desperate look in her eyes. "Agata has heard the voices, though I speak for them all. It is to her you must now go."

I asked around and found Agata in the kitchen off the main entrance getting some breakfast and talking to a wierd-looking guy with the most extraordinary and disagreeable eyebrows I'd ever seen this side of Caffrey. He had just one that went from one side of his face to the other.

Anyway after He of the Eyebrows finished his chat and wandered off, I sat down next to Agata and introduced myself as an associate.

"Good to meet you Associate," she said around a mouthful of bread, "I'm Agata, your local enchanter. Looking for a recommendation?"

"Um, yeah," says I, "but I've spoken to Dagail and... well..." How the hell do you tell a senior Guild member that their head's losing it?

"Did she ask you for help?" Agata pushed her plate to one side and looked at me square on. I just nodded.

"Well, get this straight. She's not crazy, okay? She has visions, for lack of a better term. While they used to be helpful at times, they have lately become problematic. There was an amulet, a family heirloom, that she wore to suppress, and sometimes focus, the visions. She's lost the amulet, and so has lost control." And then she sighs a bit.

I'm still floundering, but I manage to say, "Look, what do you mean by visions? The only experiences I've had with folks who saw–"

And I stop because she's picked up a knife and is looking daggers at me.

"She. Is. Not. Crazy." Very, very cold. Then she pulls herself together and carefully spreads some jam on a piece of bread. "At times, they served her well. She gained something of a reputation in the guild, and was highly valued by the Council. As she aged, the visions became less coherent. Rather than cast her aside, the Council gave her a position here. Some resent her, and wish she'd disappear. I do not. I am proud to help her with her daily tasks."

"How do we help her then?" I ask.

She looks a bit surprised at the "we". "Find her amulet, I guess, I'm not really sure what she wants. Hells, I'm not even sure what the amulet looks like."

So up I get and go to talk to Dagail. "You seek more from me, child? It is as I have seen," says she. Before I can even explain that I'd been speaking to Agata her eyes go strange and she doesn't so much say as recite:

"I know what you would ask. You would bring light to that which is in darkness, bring silence to the voices so loud. I know where you must go. Blood ran blue, and dragons flew high. Under broken towers and broken bodies it now lies, waiting to be found. What was my sire's must be mine, if you would have the words you seek. You must go and find his stone."

I'm a bit shaken at this, and I just sit there beside Dagail, who doesn't seem to notice I'm there. Eventually my brain started working again and several things slotted into place. "Dragons flew high" sounded like a reference to an Imperial fort, probably a ruin if what I'd seen of Fort Redman was any indication. Was there a Fort Blueblood too?

I went looking for Agata and heard her squaring off with Mister Eyebrows in the library. "All I'm saying is that she should have retired years ago," says he.

"Shut it, Kalthar!" snaps she, "I won't hear that kind of talk, and out of courtesy to you I'll pretend you never said that. Again. I take care of what little administrative work there is because Dagail isn't interested. I do it because it has to be done, and no one else wants to do it."

"More like she _can't_ do it, the way she is!" And he goes all wheedling like. "Honestly, with your talents and experience you should be head of the hall, not Dagail."

At this point I decide to prevent something violent happening and deliberately make some noise pushing the door open. Both spin around and look at me, both sort of relieved at the interruption.

"Well," says Agata, "Um, we'll discuss this some other time, Kalthar." And I'm thinking that further discussion might involve explosions at twenty paces if Agata's expression has anything to do with it.

"Sorry," says I, "I was looking for mistress Agata, I had some questions about enchanted arms?" And I put on a dumb expression.

So Kalthar excuses himself and takes off like Molag Bal's after him and I'm alone with Agata.

"All right," says I quietly closing the library door, "What's this stone Dagail wants me to find in Fort Blueblood?"

Agata sits down at the table furthest away from the door. And sort of sags. "All right, yes, her seer's stone is missing. It's the one thing that has kept her visions at bay, and without it, they're nearly crippling. She can't function. We haven't yet spoken to the others, for fear they would be less than accepting of her situation. Perhaps it is time, though."

"That guy, Kalthar," says I, "He already suspects doesn't he?"

Agata just stiffens and her face goes hard. "Oh, he does all right. I don't think he really knows one way or the other, but I don't trust him. He stayed on and changed his ways when Archmage Traven banned necromancy, but damnit, he..."

And then she gets this expression like she's put two and two together. "You have a map?"

I do, so she marks a spot east of town on it. "What's left of Blueblood is around here. We paid one of the local loafers to go that way and pick up some ingredients a week ago, and he said he saw bandits hanging around. So," and she gives the map back, "head on over there as soon as you can and bring Dagail's father's amulet back."

Well, I don't hang about. I'm out of the guildhall sharpish, and then over to the nearest armory, a place called The Dividing Line. Tun-Zeeus has a nice spiel he likes to open ceremonies with, and until then he had a nice silver mace. I think I still have it.

All the trip out, I felt like I was being followed, but I couldn't see anyone. And it wasn't the sense of being followed by an enemy, either. Because of that I nearly got skewered by an archer patrolling outside the entrance into the fort's bowels.

Agata's informant was wrong. Bandits don't usually swan about in heavy armour. These were marauders. To this day, I still don't know how I managed to stay alive long enough to reach the chamber entrance to the crypt where Dagail's father lay.

I certainly wasn't expecting Kalthar to yell, "Hey, j-just stop right there, all right?" behind me.

"Where the hells were you?" I snapped back, "A man could've used the help earlier on." Now also note that I'd basically bashed, stuck and spelled my way through what must have been a dozen foes, almost dying in the process.

Kalthat stepped back a bit, but his shoulders were set. "I need that amulet. Right now."

"Why?" Not in a good mood, me.

"I took the other one, and that should've been enough. I shouldn't have to go through all this, just to get rid of her!" And he starts raising his voice and waving his arms. "It's not even as if I was going to keep it forever. I was going to give it back to her, once I'd gotten what I wanted. That's not so wrong, is it?"

I just look at him, tightening my grip on my good old mace. "What you wanted?"

"Once she helped me advance out of that place, and stepped down, then she could have it back! Why did you have to get in the way?" I swear I heard something go _ping_ inside his head and he started screaming.

"Why are you trying to ruin everything!" and off we went!

To be blunt, it wasn't all that uneven a fight. Kalthar was good with that little silver dagger of his, and I also had his skeleton whacking on me as well. But nevertheless Kalthar fell. So much for his plans to get out from under Dagail.

There isn't much to say about what happened afterwards. Dagail's return to reality was as easy as putting on the amulet, and last I saw of her she was sitting down at her desk writing my recommendation. News spread fast, and it was agreed all round that you can't trust necromancers of any sort except dead ones.

Then I saw a house for sale and things went strange.


	8. In which Ra'Jirra Skips Over a Lot

**7. In which Ra'Jirra Skips Over a Lot**

The more I thought about it, the more I wanted a house in Leyawiin. My reasoning was that while I'd have a base in the Imperial City, Leyawiin's a long way from the big smoke, so knowing the costs of real estate here would be a good idea. As it turned out, there was a little cottage for sale, so I went to see the Count.

Unfortunately the Count wasn't the slightest bit interested in talking real estate until I did a little job for him, which involved the Orcish lady we all know as _Sir_ Mazoga, Knight of the White Stallion of Leyawiin. (Said always with a straight face if you know what's good for you.) It's a classic tale of redemption and revenge, and you've heard the bards going on about it. Sir Mazoga's proven Leyawiin's protection is in good hands. Unless you're Black Brugo, in which case you're dead, or a member of what's left of the Black Bow Gang, in which case you're likely getting the snot pounded out of you in Quickwater Cave or somewhere nearby.

After that I tied up some loose ends. I had collected twenty more nirnroots on my sojourn down the river and Sinderion was gobsmacked to learn this.

"Where did you find all these?" cries he, grabbing a pair of baskets to put them all in.

"Rocks and water," says I, "they seem to need to be close to rocks, whether they be stones, city walls or ruins, preferably with water nearby." I have a think and add, "I should check up north around Chorrol and Bruma and thereabouts."

"Good idea," says he, "it's valuable information. And if you look here," and he points to where a drunken rat has tracked ink across some parchment, "it seems the next strength of Elixir requires thirty more. Do keep notes on where you find them, won't you?"

And I agree and leave him to it and exploring I go.

My plan was to return to Silorn and head east, running across an abandoned chapel marked as 'the Priory of the Nine', Fort Black Boot which was full of conjurers, and the most puzzling of the lot, Bloodmayne Cave. I say puzzling because it appeared to be abandoned, fires still going, bales and chests with stuff in them. More disturbing, in a large chamber was a pallet with a skeleton spread upon it. Was he sacrificed? Necromancers? Only the wolves and rats knew so I burgled the place and beat it back to Bravil and thence to the Lodge of the White Stallion.

It was around this time I made enough cash and loot to return to the Imperial City and buy that waterfront shack. I still had a heap of travelling to do, but it's still nice to have a place of your own. Best of all, I could honestly tell people I had a residence in the Imperial City. Sort of.

Sitting there, on the evening of Fridas 16 Heartfire, I found myself boggling at how things had turned out in such a short time and thinking over my last conversation with Mazoga.

"Vaermina's tits!" she cries coming in, "what's that _stench?_"

"Um, feather potions," says I a bit embarrassed, "I'm heading for the Imperial City."

"Doing some selling?" she says around the iron-clad thumb and forefinger jammed into her honk. "You better ease up or find a new recipe."

"I'll explain outside," says I, tying on the last bits to my bundle.

Outside, it was a quiet evening except for my guts. Maybe that was why the unicorn had disappeared again.

"I'm aiming for the Mage's Guild, Mazoga," says I, "and I can't do that if I'm running around Leyawiin killing bandits, and anyway I need to get more useful."

Mazoga just looks at me. "Useful? _Sir_ Ra'Jirra, you've been an invaluable companion, and I've seen your bravery in a fight. Your parents should be proud their son is a knight!"

I start walking northward slowly so Mazoga can follow me upwind.

"Well, I've also got a trip to do up north as well," says I, "S'drassa wants some rare crystals called Garridan's Tears. I've got a name to speak with at the Arcane University, and then I'll be back."

"Yeah," says she, "I heard you stopped Dagail from going mad. Can't understand why you're messing around with those spell-slingers though."

"My parents sent me off believing that I'd join the Mage's Guild," I explain, "and I promised I would. I can't pike out when I'm only halfway there! _Sir _Mazoga," and I look at her, "I'm not letting my parents down any more than you did Ra'vindra."

She just stops and looks at me, looks away, and says, "I – I'm going to get me some – more black bows."

And away she strides, but as we part I'm sure I hear her call, "I'll save some for you!" or something like that.

I was in the city as I said by Fridas with feather potions to spare and after some vigorous merchanting finally purchased deed to the waterfront shack and several sets of furnishings, including some very useful ingredient pots.

By this time I was no longer certain whether to go westward to Chorrol or eastward to Cheydinhal. All I knew was that I seemed to be fighting other people's fires, at least three of which seemed to have something to do with necromancy. Erthor's zombies, that note in Bravil, and Kunthar's treachery. I was starting to get nervous and a half.

The following day I met Julienne Fanis in the lobby of the Arcane University and spoke to her about Garridan's Tears. According to her, and some reading I picked up from Phintias, the Tears were the crystallised – well, tears, of a knight who was trying to save his lands from drought, and met his end in Frostfire Glade, which is in the northern highlands.

On the way I spoke to an old fisherman in Weye, chap with a gammy leg and some spectacular scars on same. Apparently he needed the scales from a dozen slaughterfish. Incidentally, they're well named, and after nearly being torn apart and drowned two or three times I thought "sod this" and got on to Frostfire.

The Glade itself is reached by having refined frost salts to unlock the door at the end of a cave, which is full of really vicious wolves. In the middle there is an immense mass of ice, inside which you can see Garridan, frozen in battle with a huge atronach, whose little brother I also fought. Stay away unless you have very, very good frost resistance magicks.

Needless to say S'drassa was delighted that I'd found the Tears for him, and even more delighted that I'd managed to survive. They actually look good in his collection, and the story is a touching one. So off I went up the eastern side of the river, intending to go to Cheydinhal.

Actually I got as far as the Panther River before I was sidetracked, but I digress.

At the mouth of the Panther there's a shipwreck, which I soon discovered was involved with a ghost known to the residents of Bravil as the Folorn Watchman. That ghost has been laid to rest by yours truly, but not without a truly frightening scrap involving vengeful ghosts that weren't there the first time I looked around.

There are stranger places to make a decision than three fathoms down in a river, at night, looking for sunken treasure, by the way.


	9. Ra'Jirra Finishes his Recommendations

**8. In Which Ra'Jirra Finishes Off his Recommendations**

Having decided to go to Chorrol next, I spent some time mixing potions and went mooching down around Pell's Gate. An attack by conjurers near Sardavar Leed led me to stick my nose inside, where I saw a rather fatal three-way between a sturdy-looking warrior type, some sort of invisible monster, and someone who I now know was a member of the cult known as the Guardians of Oblivion. They're bad, as bad as the notices say. I got out of there before anyone saw me.

Downing my umpteenth feather potion and bagging some poor marauder's gear about Fort Alessia, I finally departed for Chorrol. After a drop-off at my shack I started off up the Black Road, pausing only to have a look around in and on Fort Ash after bowling an obnoxious highwayman, who apparently was stashing things in the upper levels outside.

Chorrol is one of the nicest and best-kept counties I've seen. The whole place is walled, and constables patrol the entrances. And of course there's the great oak under which you can always find the local gentry discussing affairs without resolving anything, which makes them overqualified for the Imperial Council.

To put it bluntly, news had already spread of Kalthar's treachery, but the Chorrol guildmaster Tee-Keeus had a problem of his own, collectively known as Earana, who it turned out wanted a strange book called _Fingers of the Mountain._ This I explained to Teekee.

"She _what?_ That damnable softskin..." Then he realises that Athragaer's ears are growing and pulls himself together. "Look, she and I have an unpleasant history. She does not care for Guild regulations, and errantly–"

"You mean 'erroneously'," says an Imperial woman in passing.

"Oh shut up! – believes I am misusing my powers. I would not trust her with a wet piece of parchment, let alone as dangerous an artifact as that. Hmm..."

"Whatever happened to that associate you sent for it last time?" Athragaer asks.

Tee-Keeus looks like he's about to incinerate the balding Bosmer, but relents. "Good point. Ra'Jirra looks like he can take care of himself, yes? Well, Ra'Jirra, go to Cloud Top – it's just down from the Colovian Horn there – and find that book before Earana does!"

And so I walked out of the guildhall into the rain, out of Chorrol's north gate in the rain, and up into the mountains in the rain, and finally found Cloud Top in the rain.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The associate Teekee had sent was lying in the rain by a lone shattered obelisk – very dead, a man-shaped lump of charcoal. The book, soot-smudged, was on him, but I couldn't open it! I remember turning it over and over, but there was no lock that I could see. It was strange, and it was raining, and I decided that I didn't like the way the obelisk was looking at me so I split.

Please note that Fort Rayles, last I looked, was home to the Guardians of Oblivion. Stay well clear.

Tee-keeus was happy with me and I was happy with his recommendation and off I went to Bruma by the Orange Road. My happiness stopped dead when I went peering into Shadow's Rest Cavern. There I was, poking around with Starlight active, and just as I'm heading back to the entrance _three_ trolls come in from the hunt! So there I am, racing back towards the first hiding place I can find, scared out of my wits and nearly crapping myself until the spell wore off!

Moranda was more fun. I staggered out of there laden with imp galls and welkynd stones, but my real treasure is outside Glademist Cave. On a good day you can see clear to the Imperial City and beyond into BlackMarsh. Sometimes I just up and head over there just for the view. Officially I'm after entoloma. But it's the view really.

Toadstool was another worry when I fell through a hole in the floor and had to wade my way back out through the damn undead. And I don't like snow leopards either.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The Bruma guild was a nice place, but the staff ruined it. The consensus was that Jeanne's a dizzy chook and they were pretty right; everyone else there either played tricks on her or treated her with pity – not a good relationship between head and subordinates. I was, I admit, responsible for hiding her Manual of Spellcraft, which I had to do to get my recommendation for finding J'Skar. Why the daft bint didn't use a spell of life detection I'll never bloody know. It was so easy I spent most of my time there beating up the local goblins waiting on Volanaro to show me where J'skar was!

I was a bit miffed about that, but I had no idea what was going to happen. For all their faults, they were good people. They have been avenged now.

-o-o-o-o-

After returning home and dumping loot, I headed off to Cheydinhal via Weye and one grateful fisho and an even more grateful populace of Aleswell. What happened there is another reason for a mandatory assistant system.

I'd been getting a lot of practice in on Destruction by the time I reached Cheydinhal. I was directed to someone called Falcar down in the basement, but the directions involved warnings to watch my back. And no wonder.

Falcar was a snotty Altmer and his hairdo seemed just as arrogant. Or maybe hearing him pull up before calling me a fur-licker just put me right off him.

"What do you want anyway?" he asks, "Don't tell me _you're_ looking for a recommendation."

"I'll tell you what then," says I, "let's do a deal. I do a little job for you, and you write up a recommendation for me. That way we both win and you don't have to look at my face any more. Deal?" Didn't tell him that I wouldn't have to look at _his_ face either, but haggling's like that.

He just snorts a bit and finally out comes, "Don't waste my time if you're not ready for this. Are you prepared to do what is necessary to gain a recommendation from _me_?" As though the Arch-Mage hangs on his every word. Just like old Maro.

"Yes," says I, keeping as steady as possible and trying not to let him know that I think he's spent too much time with his head up his own arse.

"Hrmph. Very well. We shall see how prepared you actually are," snorts he, but the poo's too far up his nose to snort out. "There was a particular ring of Burden I was testing some time ago. Another stupid Associate somehow got his hands on it, and managed to misplace it. If I didn't know better, I'd say he purposely tossed it down the well behind the guild hall. Why he would do such a thing is beyond me."

Didn't sound right. "And you want me to go get it."

"Exactly," says he, as though he wasn't expecting me to be that bright. "You will retrieve this ring for me. Should you manage to do so, I shall _consider _sending a recommendation to the University."

Money for jam thinks I, "Right. I'll go get it then," says I.

"The well is locked, so you'll need the key," says he, "Deetsan should have a copy of it." I think he was about to tell me to get moving except I already was.

So up I goes and find Deetsan working away at alchemy, or she was, when I interrupted her and asked for the key.

"Don't tell me Falcar'ss given you the same tassk he gave Vidkun!" cries she, then looks over the balcony like she's checking we're alone. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say he'ss trying to get you killed!"

"What do you mean?" says I, "I mean, yes, he's an arsehole, but..."

"He gave poor Vidkun the same task, and we never saw him again. I'm reasonably sure there's a connection, but I can't prove it," she says bitterly, "Anyway, here's the key, and something extra."

And so I learn a spell of Buoyancy, which I refrain from telling her I don't need since I have an amulet for that. "I don't know if it will be of use to you, but from what I've heard of Falcar's ring, it may come in handy. Oh, and if you find anything about Vidkun, let me know."

I felt a bit daft changing from my nice clothes into my battle gear, but I didn't know what was at the bottom of the well. So down I go, into what looked like part of an old Imperial fort, and there was Vidkun, drowned, one hand on the stone floor.

That wasn't right. Sheathing my mace I swam over and saw an odd ring on his finger. When I pulled it off, his hand rose free and drifted about like you'd expect a corpse's hand to do.

And no wonder! The ring, even in my pocket, weighed a ton. Ring of Burden indeed! It wasn't even magickal – just an impossibly heavy bit of jewellery!

Climbing out of the well was agony on my poor overburdened arms to the point that once I managed to haul myself over the side, I had to drop my weapons to be able to stand up and trudge back into the Guildhall and up to Deetsan.

"We have a problem," she says, "And it might affect your recommendation."

"It's not about this damn thing?" says I, hauling out the blasted ring.

She just looks at it like it's made of dog turds. "Oh, jusst drop it anywhere. I don't think he really cared about it. I think it was ssome ssort of ssick joke on hiss part," spits she. Being tidy, I put it on the display case fronting the main door. I'd like to see the thief who tried to snaffle it.

Relieved of all that weight, I manage to notice that the other guildies are all standing around looking like they just saw Molag Bal with a sheep of the appropriate sex.

"So what happened?" says I.

"I'm jusst sso tired of the way we've all been treated by Falcar! I wass worried about you, and angry about Vidkun, so I confronted Falcar directly," says she. "He flew into a rage! I didn't even undersstand some of hiss ranting, but he ssaid that our dayss are numbered, and then he sstormed out!"

"Hang on a tick," says I, "did he ever have anything to do with necromancy?"

"You mean like Kalthar in Leyawiin? I don't know, but..." I could see wheels beginning to turn in her head. "Look, you should check hiss room in the living quarterss. If you ssee your recommendation, or anything unussual, let me know. I'll gladly send it to the Council."

"Oh, one thing," says I as I head off, "I found Vidkun. He drowned in the well."

Someone gags and Deetsan sags. "I was afraid of that... I'll ssee he'ss laid to resst and the well cleaned out. That'ss all we need, tainted water..."

So down I go looking for Falcar's quarters. Turns out the dopey sod hadn't bothered to write anything about me, so I went looking for answers as to why he'd blown up like he did. In a drawer I found two soul gems that didn't look right. Gems are usually bluish, but these were a malevolent black. I took them to Deetsan who went white.

"Oh, Godss. Thiss iss worsse than I'd expected," says she, and plucks them from my hand. "All right. I'll just take these filthy thingss from you. I'll need them for my report to the Council. No recommendation I take it?" I just shake my head. "Fine. I'll write one and include it in my report. In light of the circumstancess, I believe they'll find it more than adequate."

"And that should be all of them," says I, "Seeing as I've been to Anvil, Skingrad, Bravil–"

I saw her grin. Gods, news gets around fast!

"Leyawiin" – good, that got rid of the grin – "Chorrol and Bruma. So I can head for the Arcane University eh?"

Deetsan just blinks and nods. "You've been through quite a bit, haven't you? Well, I think you have proven yoursself worthy. The Arcane Universsity awaitss you now. Once there sspeak with Raminuss Poluss about getting ssettled in."

I made my excuses and left, picked up my gear from the well and went home. That night I took a couple of bottles of ale on a walk down to the little graveyard on the waterfront and looked over at the walls of the Arcane University.

I'd done it bar the ceremonies, whatever they were. I'd fulfilled my oath to my parents. Tomorrow I would be a full-fledged member of the Mage's Guild.


	10. Ra'Jirra becomes Apprentice

**9. In Which Ra'Jirra becomes Apprentice in the Mages Guild**

The next morning I got up and considered what to wear, like some girl on market day. I wondered about the armour I had collected and used on my travels, but dropped that idea. Clanking into the Arcane University like some adventurer might be taken poorly. The last thing I wanted was to be asked if I got lost on my way to the Fighter's Guild or something like that.

So I picked up the conjurer's robe from that chap who'd swum out to attack me so long ago. Nope, I thought to myself, I'm no conjurer and they might take offense. That went back on the pile. Eventually I settled on my usual mercantile-enhancing outfit I'd been wearing whenever I fronted up in a township. It was swanky, didn't clash with my fur and hopefully would state clearly that I was able to fend for myself.

If that sounds like a lot of farting around, what can I say? I was about to make a first impression on the faculty – last time I had done little more than look up Julienne Fanis and back out again. This time I had to look my best and give those recommendations full weight. I'd be there a lot more often.

With that in mind I trudged up the slope beyond the guard tower and around the city wall to the University, a smaller echo off to the south. Through the gate and down to the little garden that took up half the interior, then up again to the lobby. An Imperial man was in there, same as when I was visiting Fanis.

"Pardon me, sir," I began, "I seek Master–"

"No need for the pleasantries," says he, "I'm Raminus Polus, and you would be our new apprentice, Ra'Jirra." And he looks me up and down while I get to grips with the fact he's _already_ calling me Apprentice. "Good man. You're not like some of the jackasses we've had commended to us. Would you believe we once had a fool swan in done up like a necromancer?" I'm about to reply but, "Damn idiot thought he'd impress us by showing off the loot he'd taken from some third-rate corpse-jockey during his quest for recommendations. The resident battlemagi cured him of _that_ notion quick!"

I think about this for a bit and finally say, "Unsurprising."

Raminus just chuckles. "Well! You'll need your new robe. Let's see..." and off he goes to rummage through a dresser full of robes. "Here we are! – one Robe of the Apprentice, part of your new uniform to go with your new stature here. Now, you need your staff."

"All right," I say agreeably and wait for it.

"Oh, I can't just give it to you," he says, "every staff is personalised. What you need to do is get the wood for the staff, and you do this at Wellspring Cave – got your map there? Good, the cave's just... there... But before you go, let me give you the grand tour..."

And so out the front door he goes and around to one of the great gates, me in tow, and hands me a key.

"The key to the Arcane University is yours," he says dramatically, "You first."

I remember being unimpressed by that key. It was just an ordinary-looking iron key except for the seven teeth and the open eye symbol on it. When I stuck it in the lock and turned it, I halfpie expected a flash of light or some other effect. What I got was creaky hinges and the momentary attention of someone in conjurer's gear on the other side.

"Oh, you must be the newcomer," says she, and before I have a chance to speak, "Yes, yes, I'm sure you've got something exceedingly important to say. But the Apprentices do not teach themselves, now do they? Good day."

And off she wanders while I stand there like an idiot.

"Don't worry about it," says Raminus with a pat on my shoulder, "She's one of our scholars here, and I swear they're all like that. Listen to those two for instance!"

Those two were standing upright and wearing robes and using words, which pretty much helps separate the citizens of Tamriel from the more stupid creatures, but all they seemed to say was things like "Ooh! You were right after all!" or "I've done my sums and I was right after all!" or some other rot. But even to this day, in all my time wandering around the University, I have _never_ learned _what_ they're talking about!

But Raminus is leading me along the concourse and pointing right. "See by the garden there? That's the Lustratorium – Julienne Fanis's alchemy centre. Next one along, that's the Chironasium – when you have your staff go in and see old Delmar there about enchantments for it. And there's the Practise Rooms for testing your spell-slinging – now on the other side of the watchtower there is the Mage Quarters – you can sleep there, any bed you like – and now there's the Mystic Archives, our library – Tar-Meena's in charge. And finally the Praxographical Centre by the lectern here for spellmaking, just watch your back around Gaspar while you're there – and that's the grand tour. What'dya think?"

And there I am trying to think and all I can say is, "Impressive!"

Raminus just grins at me. "I was like that too when I came here," he says, "but I swear things have gone downhill these days. Most of these scholars are so preoccupied they simply don't pay attention to anything but their research, whatever it is. Anyway, I have other things to do, will you be all right?"

"Certainly," says I, "and thank you so much Mast– er, Raminus."

"No problem, Apprentice," says he, and so we part ways, he back to the tower and me to the Praxographical Centre.

-o-o-o-o-

The Praxographical Centre wasn't particularly interesting inside except for two unusual things which at first glance appeared to be lecterns.

"Can I help you, Apprentice?" At my left shoulder was a hood. There was a face in it claiming to belong to Gaspar Stegine. "Master Spellmaker Gaspar Stegine, at your service. New spells. Old spells. Good spells. Bad spells. They're all fun for me!"

Slimy prick.

"So, how do these work?" asks I, pointing to the lectern things.

"Ah, those are spellmaking altars!" cries Gaspar, "They look simple, _but!_ My goodness, the effort required to wrest a concept into an actual, workable spell..." And he leans in and goes on, "These altars allow adepts to perceive the threads of magicka themselves – and wrest them into submisson! Of course," he goes well on, "that work requires reparations..."

"I see," says I neutrally, "So let's start with... oh... how about a spell of soul trap that you cast from a distance? You know, like you want to soul trap a wolf but don't want to drop your guard when it's biting you?"

Gaspar just looks at me. "For _enchantments._ I _see._" So did I – Gaspar was a snob as well as slimy – but to be fair he did a good job of showing me how to use all the bits on the altar. Let's just leave it at that. Trade secrets.

With my ranged soul trap spell, I then had a brainwave, and ignoring the all too close presence of Gaspar I mixed together fire and frost damage spells along with a short-lived soul trap. It nearly went to custard when Gaspar twigged, jumped for joy and hugged me out of the blue!

"Oh, _gorgeous!_" cries he, as I try to extract myself from his slighty too low grasp, "Such _genius!_ Frost and fire to capture soul energy – a double-_whammy!_ What _will_ you call this _marvellous_ spell?"

I just stand there and stammer, "Uh... uh... Soul... Freeze... Burn... I suppose."

And I look at him and he looks at me and then he, honest to gods, _squeals_ and hugs me again!

"Oh _perfect! _Soul Freeze Burn – does _exactly_ what it says on the bottle! Mag_nif_icent Apprentice, and such _modesty_ as well. I get tired of fools coming in and creating So-And-So's Spell or High-And-Mighty's Wonder Witchery, but you –" oh thank the Nine, he let go of me – "Oh, no, you have _style!_"

I thanked him very kindly for his patience and help and fled. No wonder Raminus had told me to watch my back. Other parts might have needed guarding too.

-o-o-o-o-

As I recovered my composure outside and began heading to the Chironasium, I saw the apprentices getting up from a lecture and drifting off, muttering amongst each other.

"Bloody rune stones again," a Breton girl says.

"It's always those things," grumbles a Dunmer boy, "I swear, Elena, these damn..." and he stops as the lecturer walks on by, "...these damn scholars don't care about anything but one-upping each other. You know when I left for Chorrol with Bosco three weeks ago?"

"Chorrol? I'd have thought Cheydinhal. And whatever happened to Bosco anyway?"

"No idea, bandits I guess. Anyway, I learned more from that guild in a week than I have here in a month! And no Grasper either!"

_Whatever happened to that associate you sent for it last time?_

I kiboshed that line of thought and popped into the Chironasium. Nice place, and Delmar is a wise Redguard who showed me how to enchant things in a dummy run.

"Now, put the item you wish to enchant on one pan." I pulled out a small green cloak acquired from a slightly dead marauder and put it in place.

"Now, a filled soul gem in the other pan." I didn't have one so Delmar helpfully picked a petty one out of a bowl and put it on the altar.

"Now, Apprentice," says Delmar, "choose wisely your effect. Remember this will be a constant effect enchantment, so it will affect you."

I thought of shielding, then decided against it. My new robe fortified willpower, and I had learned how to fortify strength, so I tossed a mental coin and chose the fortification of intelligence.

"Good thinking!" Delmar says impressed, "Now, see the scale here?" In the middle of the altar was a sort of tube and needle arrangement. When I had chosen my effect, the needle had risen to the number 8 mark.

"I see it," says I, "I guess that's the strength of the effect?"

"Yes, and the cost in thousands of gold."

_Eight thousand drakes!_ I took the cloak off the altar. "So," says I, "when I want to enchant something I need a thousand drakes per mark, right?"

Delmar just grins. "'Fraid so mate. Just remember though, you get your staff enchanted for free. When you get the staff," he adds. "Our sacred grove is that islet over east, which you can reach through Wellspring. It goes down and right under the lake."

I got the hint and made my apologies and headed for home, where I changed into my work gear and set off for Wellspring.

The ride over there was uneventful except for a pack of wolves outside the entrance.

-o-o-o-o-

Inside the cave I saw the tunnel went down to a chamber with some cots and a fellow in robes walking around. So thinking that he was a fellow Guild member, I strolled down and called, "Hail fellow Mage!"

"Fresh flesh is here!" he cried in response and summoned a ghost. Bastard was a necromancer!

The bugger took refuge in a hollow while I launched spells at his pet ghost in between shooting arrows at any part of him I could target. It was pretty unevenly matched – as soon as his ghostie summons ended, he'd whistle up another. Eventually I had enough. Pulling out my mace, I rushed him with several blows and followed up with a kill spell. He and I sank to the floor. Kill spells take it out of you.

It took me several minutes to collect all the arrows I hadn't broken in the cave walls, and I found the corpse of one of the resident mages, her throat sliced open in a way that suggested either extreme sadism or the use of a wooden spoon. I didn't like either option. The path turned right and down, the air becoming colder and damper as the cave went underneath Lake Rumare.

There was another chamber now, and I could hear lapping water. I could also see figures moving around – more necros most likely. Carefully I crept towards the chamber entrance, hugging the side. Now I could see a body of water, off to the left – I pulled off my gauntlet. The Jewel of the Rumare was there. On with the gauntlet again – a prayer – I drew my mace and ran.

The plan was to lurk underwater and wait for the necros to join me – where their spells wouldn't work and my mace and I would be waiting to either smash or drown them. The gods were with me – the channel was plenty deep enough for that. I then steeled myself for the pain that comes from sucking in water instead of air and greeted my fellow bathers.

The first necromancer was a Nord who jumped in right on top of me with a wooden mauler in hand. My response was to swing my mace into his manhood, which while not doing as much damage as I would have liked, _did_ cause him to lose most of his breath. Forsaking my shield I grabbed a foot and pulled him down with me, attempting swings at his hips and frantically kicking leg. He managed a couple of panicky blows to my helm before he finally drowned.

A blow to my back nearly sent me into the wall and I saw two more: a woman with a dagger and another man with a two-handed club. I swung at Mr Club – more accurately, at his hand. I missed however and hit his elbow instead. Out came a howl of bubbles and his next swing went wild – unlike Miss Dagger, who found a weakpoint where my elven cuirass met my chainmail greaves.

Of course, I'd dropped my shield when grabbing that damn Nord. Miss Dagger was coming at me again, so I grabbed the first thing I could find – that damn Nord. I don't think he minded getting it in the bum from her.

Anyway, Mr Hammer was still in possession of same and after me. I decided the best thing to do was give a good kick upwards, then over and down again with a king-hit on the bonce. There's worse things than blood in your eye and bits of bone are some of them.

By now the water was a mass of flailing bodies and weapons and gore and confusion. Some of it was mine. Most of it was theirs. After that bath I would need another one.

I found a tunnel leading out of the drink and staggered up it, then doubled over as I coughed up all the water I'd been breathing and wiped my face and eyes clean. Water breathing spells are a literal pain like that.

And so I picked up all the light stuff I could find and continued on. A tunnel led upwards to a door, which I assumed led to the grotto. As it was locked, I didn't expect to be greeted by necromancers. How in hell had they got in?

Not that it mattered. By this time I was tired and angry and not really in the mood for gloating conversation from some jumped-up ashskin bitch of a scofflaw. It was on this time, and I chased the corpse-shaggers up and down the grotto, virtually ignoring their summoned horrors. I just wanted to stick my mace in their faces and shut them the hells up. Which, eventually, I did.

When the sense returned to me I counted the dead – three necromancers and two members of the guild whose forms I didn't look at too closely. Apparently they were guarding some sort of stone chest, which appeared to be both a container and an altar of very great age. There was writing on it, but eroded to the point that I could only make out "Galer". "Galerion", I guessed. Perhaps this altar had been consecrated or something by him.

Inside was a fresh turd which had somehow missed an old and gnarled length of oak; I looked more closely and realised that it had been carefully shaped and prepared. This then was to be my staff. Tired, I slung the staff to be on my back and slogged back to the guild. All I wanted to do was sleep but I needed to tell Raminus that the grotto had been violated.

To my surprise, even in the small hours he was awake and fussing about in the university lobby. Didn't the man ever sleep?

"Hail, Ra'Jirra," says he, "Aren't you supposed to – what's happened?"

"Necromancers," snarls I, "at Wellspring Cave." And he steps back a bit and goes to sit down on a bench that's about three inches too far away and doesn't notice!

"Eletta and Zahrasha?" asks he.

"Anybody who wasn't a necromancer they killed," says I.

"What's this?" asks a Bosmer mage coming in.

"Wellspring Cave had necromancers," says I.

And she goes all white and says, "Oh my", and looks at Raminus and says "Oh my," and looks at me and says "Oh my," then looks at the door and totters out. She may have said "Oh my" but Raminus was muttering while rising to his feet again.

"They've never been so bold before now. Always hiding in the shadows, staying away from the guild. What could have prompted this?"

"Whatever it was they're so mad about it one of them shat in the altar," says I and sends him sitting down hard again in a near faint.

"Those swine." He says it very softly and clearly. Then he says it again, repeatedly, with more and more ornate elaborations, which seems to help him get back up again. "I'll need to speak to the council about this," says he with grim and anger, "Thank you for relaying the information. Now, tend to your staff, and your wounds, if necessary." And off he goes to the teleport pad thing while saying something I didn't catch. But it was clearer than ever to me that someone or something – maybe several – had it in for the Mage's Guild.

Clearer still that I'd ended up right in the flaming middle, just like the hero who overthrew Jagar Tharn, or the Nerevarine.

I went straight home, feeling like I was full of lightning and at any moment I would burst into a great scream of pure force that would level everything.

But that night all I ended up doing was sitting in front of the fire, drinking. It helped calm the storm atronachs inside me.

-o-o-o-o-

As I said previously, most of the scholars in the Arcane University spend their time apparently one-upping each other or talking down to the apprentices. If they're doing anything useful, they're hiding it from everyone – including me, the Arch-Mage.

So I've been taking steps.

Let me give you an example involving a scholar called Mucianus Polentus. This is a copy of a letter I wrote after his interview:

_Guild Master Dagail_

_Leyawiin Mage's Guild_

_Dagail,_

_I'm sending down a scholarly twit called Mucianus Polentus. I've just been grilling him over what exactly he's been doing for the last five years here._

_Apparently he's found a relationship between the appearance of a capital-C Champion of the sort that overthrew Jagar Tharn, was central to events in Daggerfall and was the Nerevarine, Dragon Break events, and counter-temporal daedron flows (ie. where daedrons go back in time.) Apparently these events and people are heralded by these daedron flows flooding or something._

_However, the silly bugger doesn't appear to know what the counter-temporal daedron flows are like in normal conditions. Nor has he managed to answer the question of which comes first, the daedrons or the Champion or something else._

_See if you can give the poor guy a hand with these. He's on to something big here that could revolutionise the school of Mysticism but he can't see it because he's all dazzled by Dragon Breaks._

_Also getting him away from the other airy-fairies at the University should shake the cobwebs out of his head. Give him little jobs to do and stop his head getting in a rut like it is now._

_He'll be getting his marching orders in about two days, so he should arrive down your way by Sundas._

_Hope the sheep are doing fine._

_Regards,_

_Ra'Jirra_

_PS. His research is relevant to recent events. See the sealed YOUR EYES ONLY section for more details but don't show it to Mucus – I'm not sure of his loyalties._


	11. Some Unfinished Business

**Chapter 10. In Which Ra'Jirra Finishes Old Business and Forgets Something**

Anyway, getting back to my epic life story, the following morning I decided that I needed a holiday. I also needed, I thought, a bit of a crash course in combat and using my new spells. After some thought I decided that the most sensible thing to do was head back to Anvil and locate Bjalfi the Contemptible – gods only know why Maeva got hitched to a dork with a name like that – and have a bit of a chat about his marital duties to his wife and knock his head off.

Along the way, and I wasn't really paying attention, I did find out Soul Freeze Burn works a treat on deer, wolves, skeletons and eventually ghosts. And so I made my way to Fort Strand again. And got the attention of the bastards standing watch again. And went in again.

Unlike last time, once inside I hooked a right, carefully felling felons as I went. A large double door led almost directly to the chamber in which Bjalfi and his buddies were milling about, just around a corner.

Now, consider this. You're in a stone chamber underground. Your mates are wandering about in earshot. And then one cries out in alarm and hares off to deal with an intruder. Then another hares off. And another. And they don't come back. A sensible bloke would lend a hand. And I'd not be here writing this.

Instead, it was a white-knuckle business of attracting the attention of one or two, dropping them, recovering, then luring more over to their deaths. Finally, eight corpses later, I got the attention of Bjalfi – it must have been him, he was waving a dwemer mace fair crackling with shock magicks.

"Bjalfi!" shouts I, "Your wife sent me!"

"Tell the bitch to..." starts he, and I refuse to repeat what he suggested Maeva do, or what else he said. Mainly because he started screaming and I lost track what with him swinging at my head and all.

So we fought. I backpedalled and slung spells and mace blows. He just charged and flailed away and screamed Nord curses until I finally wore him down enough that the kill spell finally did for him. I sank to my knees exhausted – trust me, casting the kill spell knackers me almost as much as the victim. I took a look at the battered visage of Bjalfi the Contemptible, a face that showed the marks of dissipation and no sense of responsibility. Not the sort of face you'd expect to see working in the farmyard.

Grimly, I looted the corpses, and even more grimly pulled out some feather potions before heading back to Anvil see Maeva – fortunately outside.

"I haven't seen you for over a month," says she, "Well? Did you find my husband?"

I just look at her and wish I could have escorted Bjalfi back. With Rockshatter Maeve would have made his life pure, well-deserved hell.

Instead I silently handed her Rockshatter.

"Dead huh?" Not a question. "Well, good riddance I guess. Heh. He was so besotted with me, I thought I was gonna be the one to make an honest man outa him."

No lady, thinks I, he was besotted with your tits. While I'm not that interested in smoothskins hers argued for an exemption, but that's not important right now.

"Well," she goes on, "here's your reward – my damn dowry. Looks like my father was right when he said I was a fool to marry him..." And since then whenever I've seen her she's always had that made by her side. Can't say I blame her for keeping it close.

-o-o-o-o-

So afterwards I took off as fast as I could for Morvayn's Peacemakers before the potions wore off, took a breath, and carefully stepped inside, trying to keep my guts reined in.

"Varel Morvayn," he recited, "Been making weapons and arms here in Anvil for 30 years. People say I do good work, and I don't aim to argue with them." Evidently he didn't recognise me from all that time ago.

"Good day sir," I declare, "I have some salvage from Fort Strand."

"The marauder base?" says he, "Many casualties?"

I think then say, "About a dozen. Uh, including Maeva's hubby," while extracting as many of the cuirasses and weapons as I can.

"Bjalfi? Oh yes, I'd heard he'd been seen around there. Then again, _I_ always knew he was a wastrel. Nobody good could be called 'the Contemptible'," and he just taps his nose and nods knowingly. "This is a good haul, hmm..."

And he dawdles over each item, and he's good, eyeing every ding and nick, and I can feel pressure building.

"I left some items outside, let me get them," says I and shoot out the door, around the corner, and frankly I _tried _to keep it discreet but felt like half of Anvil learned why Mazoga calls me Trumpet-Tail.

What? Best to get it out in the open under _my _control.

That embarrassing nickname I mean.

And then I took a pair of silver maces out of my pack, went back inside, and acted as if nothing had happened while impoverishing poor old Varel.

"A pleasure to do serious business," says he, "By the way, did you hear anything strange outside?"

I just shook my head and bolted.

-o-o-o-o-

With extra coin and filled-up soul gems I felt ready to get my staff done. So I returned home to the Imperial City and then to the Chironasium, where I checked the cost (still too high) of enchanting my staff.

"Whatever are you doing?" Delmar had snuck up behind me.

"Prepping my staff for enchanting," says I.

Delmar just looks at me like I'm an idiot. "Well there's no need to bankrupt yourself! Give it here, didn't Raminus tell you you get your Mage's Staff for free?"

Yep, I'm an idiot. Sheepishly I removed my gem from the altar and handed the staff over to him.

"Right then," says he, being very diplomatic I thought, "you'll need to decide what sort of staff you're looking for. Something that fits you, and your abilities. Enchanting staves can be a tricky business. Only certain spells will be truly useful to you, so I'll narrow it down some. Destruction, Illusion, or Mysticism?"

"Illusion," says I, as my skills in that school were lacking. Destruction goes without saying, and I tended to cast life detection spells almost non-stop. Even Dagail, once she got her marbles back, complemented me on my skill in that school.

"Right then!" says he, "Since staves launch spells at people, your choices are Charm, Paralyze, and Silence. Which would you like?"

And I has another little think and decide that being able to slow down attackers some is a highly recommended thing, and so "Paralysis," says I.

"Uh huh, so with your staff you'll be able to stop attackers in their tracks for a little while. And that's definitely what you want?"

_Yes_, that was _definitely_ what I wanted.

"Right then," says he, "come see me tomorrow and your staff will be ready."

And so I thanked him very kindly for his time and went home.

Now by all rights I should have spent the time delving and having adventures. Well sorry to disappoint, but I spent my time doing some alchemy, housework and my laundry, and meditating on the fact that it had been over a month since I stepped off the _Coy Carp_ in Anvil, three-and-forty days ago.


	12. Dodgy Dealings in Skingrad

**Chapter 11. In Which Ra'Jirra Has a Nasty Surprise in Skingrad**

I popped back into the lobby of good old AU and greeted Raminus, who was chirping on to one of those square-faced bosmers about the latest fights at the Arena. I can't understand the impulse to regularly risk one's neck for gold in front of a crowd. Mind you I tend to risk my neck going on quests, but usually those are private affairs or for the good of the Empire.

"Journeyman Ra'Jirra!" says he, "I have a task for you!"

"Certainly, Raminus – hang on, what did you call me?" says I.

Raminus just grins at me. "The Council are no slouches with recognising those who go above and beyond for the Guild. Such as you."

"Well, then," says I slowly, "What's this about a task?"

"The Council is investigating what happened at Wellspring Cave," he explains, "Many of our resources are devoted to the task, leaving our ranks spread thin. There is a related book that needs to be recovered. It was recently loaned to Janus Hassildor, the Count of Skingrad. I'd like you to retrieve it."

"That's all?" says I, and here I am thinking it's a cushy number as long as I don't run into Glarthir again.

"I understand this may not seem the most important of tasks, but still..." shrugs Raminus, "It needs doing, and you are one of the few available to do it."

"And while you're over there," interrupts Mrs Square Face, "you can help me with the orrery."

"Sorry Ra'Jirra," says Raminus all embarrassed, "This is Bothiel. She maintains the Orrery here."

"That's what I _would_ do if it wasn't for bandits," she jumps in irritably, "and they stole parts I was waiting for. Here," and she hands me a paper, "this explains the situation. If you could get those parts back, you'll help get the Orrery working again."

I looked at the paper and noted the location of Camp Ales on my map, more or less north of Kvatch.

But Ranimus clears his throat with an angry noise, and gets my attention again. "I _think_ the issue of necromancers is a bit more important than retrieving parts..." Whoops! Bothiel's face goes all thunderous, but he charges on, "A note of caution: Skingrad is an... unusual place. Be prepared for the unexpected. The Count is a reclusive man, and sometimes difficult to see. Hopefully, your status as a representative of the Guild will aid you. Speak with the castle steward when you arrive."

And I acknowledge that and am all yes sir and away I go before the fight gets underway.

-o-o-o-o-

Frankly, Skingrad _was_ fairly strange. There was Glarthir, the crazy bosmer, Erthor, the crazy mage, and now I had to deal with a crazy count? "Fuggnell," I muttered as I left my little home and started along the way.

It was late in the day of 6 Frost Fall when I arrived in Skingrad, gussied myself up in my Mage's Guild finery, presented myself at the castle, and spoke to his steward, one Mercator Hosidius.

I shouldn't have bothered.

"Yes? The Mages Guild, you say?" and he gives me a look like I'd come fresh from the hog pen. (Funny that, I've never seen pig farms anywhere.) "Oh, the Count is quite aware of your presence here. He simply has no interest in granting you an audience at this time." And he looks me up and down in a way that sets my ears back. "Now that I've seen you myself, I can't say that I blame him."

"Charming," says I in my most sarcastic tone, "Does the Count know you make his decisions for him?"

There was an Argonian bird nearby and she looks at him and looks at me and slowly backs away.

Mercator just smirks. "Nevertheless," says he most condescendingly, "I shall endeavour to change his mind on the subject. Return tomorrow – perhaps he will see you then."

And he turns on his heel and stomps off.

"What the hell was his problem?" asks I of nobody in particular.

"No idea," says the Argonian suddenly, "I've _never_ seen him so rude to anyone from the Mage's Guild before, and he doesn't like the guild that much already. Tell the truth, I thought you two were about to start swinging. Um..."

And she looks to the door and I do too and see the guards putting their swords away. Bloody hell.

"I'd best leave," says I and so I do. I didn't stop leaving until I was past the graveyard and accosted by a minotaur.

My nice new staff worked a treat, but you had to think fast because by the time I'd drawn a weapon the damn critter had got back up again. Eventually the beast fell, and I got some minotaur horn for my efforts.

I spent the night mooching in goblin caves, including the Derelict Mine on the road to the Imperial City, scoring, among other things, a nice silver axe. The following morning I went back to the castle – the tension wound up as soon as I entered and Hosidius saw me.

"You again!" He struts right up to me and gets in my face. "_Has _a day passed?"

"You said 'come back tomorrow'," says I, folding my arms, "Well – it's tomorrow."

And we just look at each other.

"I have nothing new to tell you," he says at last and turns and struts away.

"That's all right," says I, and he stops and stares at me as I plonk myself in a handy chair and pull a couple of books out of my pack, "I'll wait." And then I smiled at him and started reading _The Collected Plays of Crassius Curio._ Lovely fellow. Penned some of the lewdest and rudest farces ever to come out of Morrowind. Or anywhere else for that matter.

"Haven't you got some muck to brew?" says Hosidius about Act II Scene I of _Dance of the Three-Legged Guar._

"You're unwelcome here," adds he just as I'm about to turn the page and start on Act IV Scene IV of _The Lusty Argonian Maid._

"Oh all right!" he finally says just as I'm getting to the good bit of _The Real Nightmare of Castle Xyr,_ "The Count will meet you at 2am tonight, in the High Pasture west of town. Don't be late!"

"All right then," says I, and I take my time plucking a leaf off a bunch of grapes for a bookmark as I savour the good bit. Then I put the books back in my pack and left. I didn't even need to start on _Fool's Ebony._

I had several hours to kill, so I wandered over to the Mage's Guild, where nothing of interest happened. However I did notice a new altar I hadn't seen before, so I had a fiddle to pass the time. But you can only fiddle with an altar for so long, so I went off and had a look around the proposed meeting place.

-o-o-o-o-

The High Pasture is west of Skingrad, but east of the so-called Cursed Mine, where the road turns south towards Kvatch and Anvil – you know, where that little tree is in the middle of the road. I paid the Cursed Mine a visit and found some extra alchemical gear which the bandits inside didn't need for some reason.

And so I went back to the High Pasture about midnight, dropped off some of my loot in a handy byre, and waited a bit more. The longer I waited, the more disturbed I became. Why here? Did the Count fear a spy?

The moons were waning; I finally saw Hosidius walk past outside, accompanied by two figures in dark robes. My time sense said it was almost two; I loosened my mace in its sling, cast a detect life spell – nobody else in range – and followed them to a point outside, where they stopped. And stared at me.

I stared at them, until Mercator finally spoke up.

"Just in time, _Mage. _We've been waiting for you." He looked disgusted, but that didn't surprise me, since we didn't exactly get on well. "I'm afraid I misled you. The Count won't be arriving – in fact, he doesn't even know you're here."

"Don't tell me _you're_ one of the corpse-humpers," I said in contempt.

And that pretty much started the fight.

At first I wasn't doing very well. Against one, I can survive; two, it's a matter of fending one off while beating on the other. _Three_ I was struggling with, until someone in some very fancy shining armour came charging in, grabbing a necromancer with one hand and smashing him in the face with another.

Mercator sort of lost his concentration then, gaping at the newcomer, and I took great pleasure in swinging my mace into his jaw. I could hear the bones break and watched his head snap back, then I finally loosed off a kill spell that stuck. Death wrapped him in red and black.

The other necro staggered back past me, glittering with ice, breath frozen in his lungs, dead before he hit the ground.

Then someone took my helmet off from behind. "Excuse me," said a cultured voice, then a small mountain landed right on my noggin.

-o-o-o-o-

I returned to the Arcane University later that day – 8 Frost Fall I believe – and I was _pissed._

"Hail Journeyman!" cries Bothiel, "Have you–"

Khajiit have this ability to hiss volumes. And I hissed an entire library's worth at her. I'm not happy about it, but maybe her ill-advised greeting let Raminus live.

I stalked over to where Raminus was slowly backing away from me.

"The Count Janus Hassildor," I very carefully say, "says, and I quote, 'Tell your Council that the next time they want something from me, they come themselves. They don't send someone under _false pretences_.'"

Raminus started to splutter, but I didn't let him.

"Before he told me that, his steward, Mercator Hosidius, attempted to lead me to an ambush, claiming a secret meeting with the Count. If that worthy hadn't suspected, I would most likely be dead, and I would not be nursing this lump from where he knocked me down for _'my'_ stupidity afterwards.

"And he also added, and I quote, 'Despite what your Council may think, I've not thrown in with the Necromancers, and would never do so. You may pass along that message.' Well – I consider it passed on."

By this time my blood was down a bit, and Raminus actually looked contrite.

"Ra'jirra, I... I must apologize. It was never the Council's intention to put you in harm's way."

Either Raminus was a bloody good liar on a par with Marobar Sul, or he was being honest.

"Now, I know you've had a rotten time, but I can... I believe you deserve reward, Evoker Ra'jirra."

"What?" was my intelligent response.

Raminus straightened up and rummaged under his robe. "As far as _I_ am concerned, from this moment, you have gained the rank of Evoker. There'll be someone complaining about your meteoric rise in the ranks, I guess, but you've gone well above and beyond your duty to the Guild. And along with your new rank, please take this amulet. May it help keep you safe in times of danger."

And he handed me this self same Spelldrinker Amulet I still wear to this day. All right, unless I've got a more suitable one.

"Did you find the missing parts for the orrery?" Bothiel asked then, killing the moment stone dead.

"No ma'am," I said in a lofty tone, "I'm afraid I got distracted with necromancers trying to kill me and all."

"Well, _really!_" She actually stamped her foot at me. "Don't you understand how important my work is? The orrery here is the only one in Cyrodiil. There's one more in Hammerfell... the old one at Stros M'Kai. Finding those parts is essential to unlock the secrets of the heavens – including, if my research is right, access to celestial powers! You get right back there and – _men!"_

Maybe Raminus and I shouldn't have burst out laughing. Mind you, the way she stormed out would have set us off anyway.

You should see the orrery, by the by. It's a truly amazing sight, and Bothiel's forgiven me for my lapse of memory there.


	13. Ra'jirra is Bored in Vahtacen

**Chapter 12. In Which Ra'jirra is Bored in Vahtacen**

"Anyway, Evoker," Raminus then said to me, "I'd like you to meet Irlav Jarol. He's got a task for you, and just so you know, no necromancers."

"Sounds fair," says I, "Now where would he be?"

Raminus just points upwards. "I'll go up and let them know you're Evoker now, then I'll bring him down."

And so I waited. Two hours later, Raminus and an older man in white quilted clothing popped into existence on the little dais that Raminus told me led to the council chambers and Arch-Mage's quarters.

"Councillor Jarol," Raminus says respectfully, "Here is Evoker Ra'jirra."

"Evoker?" says Irlav, eyeing him and me suspiciously, "I was under the impression that this cat was a Journeyman."

"Councillor," Raminus says carefully, "Ra'jirra did risk his life in Skingrad for the Guild. As I told the council, I declare him to be Evoker now in recognition of his services to the Guild against the necromancers."

Irlav just looks at me as though I brought the corpse-jockeys in myself.

"I don't know he's that trustworthy. Or," and suddenly I realise I'm still in full armour and look nothing like – "that much of a mage. What good is he going to be?"

I can feel a hiss coming on, probably followed by expulsion, so I try to put a lid on it.

"Councillor." Raminus looks like I feel. "Ra'jirra is a member in good standing of the Guild and-"

"May I point out that we did _not_ have this necromancy problem _until_ this cat turned up?" My jaw near falls off and Raminus tries to speak but on goes Jarol. "Now, all of a sudden we have necromancers in our most venerated shrine, necromancers uncovered in our guildhalls, and necromancers in Skingrad! What next? Will we discover a secret shrine on the University grounds?"

"Well put him to the test and find out yourself!" Raminus snaps.

"What?" is my intelligent response.

"Very well," says Jarol, who then turns to me. "_Journeyman_ Ra'jirra, I want you to go to the workings at Vahtacen at once. The last report I received from Skaleel indicated there was some sort of problem. A blocked passage, or something, that they couldn't get past. I'd investigate it further, but I'm needed here with the Council. Raminus _says_ you've got a good head on your shoulders."

"Right then," says I, "Tell me where it is and I'll be off. _Councillor_ Jarol." (I almost called him a smoothskin but thought better of it.)

"Southwest of Cheydinhal, at the mouth of the Reed River," snaps he, "Look for it almost due west of Swampy Cave. I expect your report at the earliest." And with that he stomps off.

"Ra'jirra," starts Raminus uncomfortably.

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I... I wasn't expecting that. Irlav is a bit... intense... and I think he's torn between keeping on top of the necromancer problem and his Ayleid studies."

"Don't make excuses for the bastard," says I, "He's probably been a racist all his life and now it's come out. Well – I'll show him what us cats can do."

And out I stalk.

-o-o-o-o-

My trek took me to a local landmark known as Longman's Barrow, which unfortunately was blocked off by Imperial orders. Actually it's probably a good thing as I really didn't need the distractions, besides I ran into goblins on the way there and once more at the ruins of Arkved's Tower. From there I had a brainstorm and swam the rest of the way up the Reed River to its mouth. Swampy Cave was easily spotted, but Vahtacen had me flummoxed. It looked just like a regular cave, not an Ayleid ruin.

But in I went, expecting some sort of resistance, but instead to my relief found a hole leading to an Ayleid chamber containing an Argonian woman who turned out to be Skaleel, and mightily grumpy and frustrated.

"Don't tell me Jarol sent you," she starts.

"He bloody did," says I, "and called me a cat to boot."

At this her eyes go all wide and she actually softened a bit. "I'm not surprised," says she, "In fact I think he deliberately sent me here to fail. That damn pillar will be the end of me!"

"What pillar?" asks I.

"Through that gate," and she hands me a key, "There's a room with a huge pillar in the middle. Denel and I have almost been killed trying to solve it. I don't know, you have a look and let us know if you have any bright ideas."

Through the gate a hallway dipped to the left and down. Halfway along I got a nasty feeling; casting a detect life spell revealed ghosts to my right. However if there was a secret entrance I couldn't find it, so I ignored the spectres and approached the bosmer who was around the next corner.

"I'm Ra'jirra, Evoker of the Mage's Guild," says I, "You're Denel, if Skaleel tells me right?"

"That I am," says he, "and it's great to meet you. Let me guess, Jarol wants a progress report?"

"Looks like it," says I.

"Well, the only progress we're making is staying alive, and the only reason we're doing that – follow me, I'll show you."

And so he leads me through the gate and off to the right is a chamber with an immense pillar in the middle, about twenty feet wide.

"The pillar responds to magic," says he, "but so do the black crystals," and he points to a corner of the room, where there's a black crystal above a sort of stone and metal stand. Then I look closer and realise the crystal is actually hovering in place. Beside it, a small plaque I couldn't read.

"When I cast this spell," Denel says, "run!"

So Denel casts a lightning spell at the pillar. The pillar seems to shiver slightly, then the black crystals glow with a red light. I know all this because I'd followed Denel through the gateway and was watching.

The crystals let go of their energy – straight for us! If it wasn't for the metal grating and the wall we'd have been hit!

"See what I mean?" says he, "Come here and listen." He walks back to the pillar without a qualm, picks up a pickaxe and raps it against the pillar. "Hollow," he explains, "so there's something in there. But how you get it out has us stumped."

"No levers, no buttons?" asks I.

"No, as far as we can tell, it's magic, maybe a series of spells. But we've no idea what spells, and frankly we're too scared to risk our lives experimenting."

"What about these plaques?"

"Well... I think Skaleel might have a reference... Yes, ask her, see if she has one."

"Why don't you?"

And I look at him and he looks at me and I realise that he's afraid. Maybe he's afraid of the pillar, or of Skaleel, or what might be waiting inside the pillar. I don't care. Back up the hall I go.

Skaleel didn't hear me return, as she was hunched over the desk nibbling on a quill and staring at a blank sheet of paper. I tapped her on the shoulder and she spun round and punched me in the guts.

"Oh!" She goes to help me up. "I'm so sorry, I thought – um – oh hells."

I say nothing, I'm too busy trying to start breathing again. But Denel had best keep his hands to himself in future or I'll pass that punch on.

"Do you have a reference for the Ayleid tongue?" asks I – eventually. And painfully.

"What for?" asks she.

"To stick it to bloody Jarol," says I, "show him what we beastfolk can do."

And she just stands there with this look on her face.

"Oh, all right!" And into my hands comes a book entitled _Ayleid Inscriptions and Translations._ "Here. Denel can knock himself out with it. I wish he would. And when he does, you can –" Well, let's not go there, but it was an entertaining thought involving Jarol as a bookshelf.

Ayleid ruins are great for light, so I had a read. One phrase – _Garlas Agea_ – jumped out at me. I'd been to Garlas Agea when I first set foot in Cyrodiil – the Caverns of Lore. But for now I parked up next to Denel. "Care for some reading?"

"Oh, you got it did you?" says he as he takes the book and opens it, "Good for you. I've given up trying to deal with her for now. I'll tell you what. If you can read me the inscriptions, I'll see if I can find translations for them."

Sounded fair to me, so into the chamber I went, warily eyeing the black crystals of death. I decided the best thing to do was turn left and work my way around. "The first one's _av molag anyammis_," calls I.

"According to this, it translates to 'From Fire, Life'," calls he back, "Fire it is, then. What's next?"

"_Av mafre nagaia_, looks like," calls I.

"What's that?" calls he.

"Get in here! I'm not throwing spells around!" yells I.

And in he comes, looking like he expects the pillar to sprout teeth and bite him.

"Oh, stop that," says I, "I said, the inscription on this one's _av mafre nagaia_."

"'mafre'..." and away he goes flicking through the pages, "...seems to translate to 'frost.' So a spell with frost damage should work for it. Anything else?"

I walk across the room to the facing plaque. "Says _magicka loria._"

"Aha!" Denel cries, he's getting excited, "It means 'Magicka Darkens.' Or 'magicka wanes'... a spell to damage magicka would fit the bill there! Last one!"

I'm already heading over to it. "I'll bet anything _magicka sila_ means a magicka restoring spell mate!"

Denel makes a rude noise. "You can't restore magicka with a spell! On the right track though. The plaque translates to 'Magicka Shines.' Sounds like a fortification spell to me!"

It all made sense. Heating up the pillar and cooling it down; reducing the magicka levels and building them up.

"Right then, Denel," says I heading back around the corner, "All I need are spells to reduce and build up magicka."

"Let me have a look," says he, and he goes to a chest and starts a-rummaging and out come two scrolls, and a copy of _Observations on the Love for Nature._ As I have a copy of this work I can well understand why Skaleel's fist and Denel's guts can't be friends.

"Here we are," cries he, "scrolls to damage and fortify magicka. Right then! Time to start flinging spells eh?"

You know who had to risk his neck, right?

I launched that fireball with butterflies the size of the Imperial Dragon in my stomach. What happened was that the black crystals did nothing and the pillar's sections began to slide, some up, some downward.

Swallowed hard – snowball this time. Another success! The pillar was definitely unravelling now. If I continued to follow the sequence around the walls like I had when translating...

"_Skaleel!_" The bosmer's yell nearly made me jump through the ceiling. "The pillar's opening!"

I didn't hear what Skaleel said as I was trying to remember what came next. Oh, yeah, damage magicka – which was a touchy-feely one. Imagine trying to read a scroll while in arm's length of something trying to take your head off. Now imagine trying to read a scroll surrounded by objects which will trash you with magickal energy if you choose the wrong scroll.

I chose the right one. I know that because Skaleel walked past me and stood on tiptoe to peer into the now very large opening in the obviously hollow pillar.

"There's a doorway down there," she notes. "One more spell?"

One more spell. Magicka fortified, the pillar finally opened up to reveal a stair descending to a door with luminous leafy patterns on it.

"Vahtacen Lorasel," Skaleel read. "This place was a tomb." She looks at me. "Be my guest."

"What?" I was being intelligent again.

"You solved the pillar," she said patiently, "You get to have a look around first. There must be something really important to be locked away like this."

And I look at her and she looks at me and I finally say "all right," go down the stairs, through the door, which closes behind me, then listen at the gap where the door meets the jamb.

"Why him?" Denel.

"Because he's too damn smart, that's why! He'll probably get eaten on the way back." Skaleel.

"You'd want that, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would, you little pervert! We've been here a week and making no progress – how's that going to look to fucking Jarol?"

I decide to ruin Skaleel's day.

-o-o-o-o-

In front of me, a gate, in front of a ghost. Open the gate. Bow of Jolts does that to the ghost, then a spark spell finishes it off. Along. Chamber. Trap in the middle. Blackies, four, near the ceiling. Put away the bow and book it for the far side. No hits. Floor pad. Detect life shows two ghosts either side. Sneak forward enough to trip the pad – side walls open, then forward. Jolt and spark one ghostie then the other. Can't touch me. Yay. Another death chamber, but the trap drops, not rises to ceiling. Beyond, swinging axe trap. How in hell did I get through it?

Beyond the rigged chambers, evidently designed to distract and destroy tomb robbers, was a huge chamber, in which was a raised platform. Beyond it was a set of stairs leading to a ledge which hid a switch that raised steps towards it. Back down, up the newly raised steps – how did those Ayleids make them? – and I hear things summoned. Zombies. _Tough_ buggers. Sensibly I break off and drop the bastards.

Back to the dais. There's a cage thing on a central pillar. One of the four pillars around it has a switch that raises to reveal – an Ayleid helm? Look at it – seems safe – just incredibly old and engraved. Take it – nothing happens – time to piss off.

Up the steps. Woah! Skeleton. One silver arrow drops the filthy thing. A secret gate hath opened. Go through – caskets offer nice things. Ghost at the top of the stairs – arrow. Again. Spark and there it goes for some ectoplasm. I keep moving. Another secret door opens and I now know how the builders got out of here.

-o-o-o-o-

I emerged from the Lorasel and Skaleel was nowhere to be seen. Turned out she was in the entry chamber, and looked surprised to see me.

"Oh, Evoker! Uh... did you find anything?"

"Just this helmet," says I, "but it was at the end of three – no, four traps."

And Skaleel peers at it. "Never seen markings like that. I think you've really found something!"

"I have?"

Skaleel looks at me doubtfully. "Is something wrong?"

"Well," says I, looking her in the eyes, "Just after I went in, I heard some Argonian saying I'd get eaten on the way back. Makes a man leery."

And she jumps and looks guilty.

"Evoker..."

"Skaleel... I don't have time for this. I've already had necromancers on my arse and I don't need members of the Guild joining in as well." She jumps again. "Or maybe you're thinking of heading east and joining the Telvanni?"

Oh, you should have seen her face! She flaps her jaw a bit and nothing comes out and her eyeballs almost fall out of their sockets and do laps around the room.

"Can you keep a secret?" Very quiet, very panicked.

"All right," very quiet, very measured.

"I'm... I'm out of my depth here. I thought this would be a doddle, just poke around, find some nice bits and I'd become an Evoker too. I don't know enough about Ayleid lore to do anything, all I could do was throw spells at that pillar, I didn't know what the hell was going on. Denel suspects, but he's just an Apprentice, he can't make any accusations stick – except that... well, you know?"

"Oh, I know all right," says I, "and here's what I'll do. I'll take this helmet to Jarol and tell him that I found it with your help. Because that's pretty much the truth." I grin evilly. "Besides, that way he'll be beholden to not one, but _two_ beastfolk. See how he likes that!"

And Skaleel has a think and likes the idea and grins. "Oh, the poor baby." She starts chuckling. "That poor man... beholden to a lizard and a cat." She starts laughing evilly. "He dumped me here to fail you know! And I'd be out! How's he like how things turned out now?"

I don't answer. I'm off to find out.

-o-o-o-o-

By the time I returned to the Arcane University it was the morning of 10 Frost Fall. I was lucky enough to find Jarol heading for the teleport platform.

"Master Jarol," says I, bringing forth the helm, "We appear to have found something."

"Well where is it?" snaps he, "All I see is an Ayleid helm! If I wanted a damn helm I'd go molest marauders!"

"Sir," says I, ever so patiently, "This particular helm was under a cage past no less than four trapped corridors and rooms. Whatever those markings represent they really didn't want looters to sieze it."

"Markings?" And I find myself being pulled by the arm towards a candelabra. "Let me see," and he takes the helm and turns it this way and that. "Now then... If my suspicions are right these... yes..."

I wait patiently as he gets more and more excited about this old helm.

"Well done," he says at last, "Raminus was right –"

_Unfortunately,_ I can tell –

"– Suggesting you to me," he finishes.

"I couldn't have cracked it without Skaleel's help," says I truthfully.

He just looks at me, and I can see volumes in his gaze. Volumes I don't want to open.

"Well, I'll put in a good word for you," says he, then ruins it by glancing at me and saying, "Evoker" grudgingly.

I go all amen and thankee and get the hells out.

Later, I was to find out that there was a pattern of racism in Jarol's activities, but that's neither here nor there given what happened and besides the man is dead.


	14. Black Soul Gems

**Chapter 13. In Which Ra'jirra Learns the Secrets of Black Soul Gems**

Well as I say, off I went to cool down. Next thing I know, Raminus is tugging on my cuff.

"Hold on there, Conjurer," says he, "Can you do me a favour?"

I just stare at him. "I'm promoted _again?_"

Raminus just grins and hands me a conjurer's robe. I could feel the magic in it, much better than the one I'd pulled off that sodden corpse near Anvil.

"We're in strange times now," says he, "and we need good men, mer, and beastfolk like yourselves. Besides, you've done heaps for the guild, starting with unmasking Falcar, stopping Kalthar, offing the spies in Skingrad... which brings me back to your recommendations."

"Go on," says I, "What do you need doing?"

"I need you to find out about black soul gems, like the ones you found in Skingrad. Delmar's had a look at them, and he told me they can swallow a person's soul entire! Can you imagine the enchantments you could make with a soul like that?"

I can't because it's only here in the sunlight that I notice a huge bruise on Raminus' temple that wasn't there two days ago.

"What the hell happened to you?" asks I.

Raminus points to the Mystic Archives. "Tar-Meena."

Even as he speaks an Altmer shoots out the door like Molag Bal made advances at her.

"What the hell?" is my intelligent response to this sight.

"Um..." Raminus looks embarrassed, "The Council's in an uproar over the necromancer threat and they've all demanded everything she has on them. Even I went to ask her, and she just screamed and threw a book at me."

Now I've heard everything.

"Look, Tar-Meena's going crazy because up until now we've just asked for everything and anything she has. Those black soul gems from Skingrad are the only really concrete thing we have to research. How are they made? How are they used? That sort of thing. But I'm keeping my distance from Tar-Meena until she calms down."

So off I go and enter the Mystic Archives.

Inside was full with apprentices and other sorts mumbling as quietly as possible over books and parchments, shooting fearful looks at Tar-Meena, who was slumped in front of a desk staring unseeing at some paperwork. Her colour didn't look too good, all dull and flat, and there were dark bags under her eyes.

"Ma'am?" asks I.

"What?" she snaps, hackles shooting up and tilting her head just enough to glare at me, "Don't tell me you're looking for information on fucking necromancers as well!"

I start to speak, but away she goes, "I've had every fucking councillor and their flunkies in here demanding information on fucking necromancers and can they have it yester-fucking-day! What do they think I am, a miracle worker? I can't produce results if I can't get the time!" She sags a bit and groans, "I'm not used to working like this."

"Well I don't give a damn about the corpse-jockeys," says I, "I'm after information on black soul gems."

Well, _that_ takes her by surprise. "Not necromancers?"

"Well," admits I, "When I went to Cheydinhal, Falcar turned out to be one, and he had a couple, and Raminus asked me to find out more."

"Well, _finally!_ Something solid I can respond to!" She straightens up and then looks at me slyly. "How's his head?"

"Never seen it that colour before," says I, "Don't think he likes it."

Tar-Meena just snorts with amusement. "Lemme think... Yes... I think we still have a copy of _Necromancer's Moon_ around here. Unfortunately I've no idea where it is," and she glowers at the assembled parishioners, "Thanks to all these overly vague requests, I've lost track of most everything. It's very distress–"

Everyone downed tools at the same time and started scouring the shelves. Precious volumes were dumped unceremoniously on tables, desks and even the floor, where they got kicked or stood on in the scuffle as Tar-Meena and I stared on, stunned. The poor librarian flinched every time a book got dropped or banged or kicked.

Then a struggle broke out between a disgracefully fat Dunmer and a young Nord over one book, which only stopped when the unfortunate volume broke apart with a terrible noise.

Everyone froze at that instant, then an equally terrible hissing sound began to fill the silence.

It took me a while to realise it was coming from Tar-Meena, who was now beginning to look like a mad dog. All bared fangs and bulging, enraged eyes, stalking towards the two now very scared idiots with hands twitching.

I fled – along with everyone else, just as Tar-Meena screamed like a skeleton. A couple of battlemagi, probably alerted by the exodus, charged in, and I'm guessing they managed to calm the angry Argonian since about ten explosion-free, if not screeching-free, minutes later they emerged, struggling with a somewhat scratched and burnt fat Dunmer and young Nord.

"The Mystic Archives are closed until further notice," one of them announced, "and if you love living for the gods' sake don't go in there."

Great. I still didn't have the book and it looked like asking for it would be asking for it. The Mage's League of Silly Buggers drifted away arguing what to do, while I braced myself and gingerly peered in. Tar-Meena was looking utterly deflated as she surveyed the mess the library had become.

"Can I help you clean up?" I asked.

Tar-Meena just looked at me dully. "Get out."

"Look," says I, "This was partly my fault, asking for that –"

And a book hit me square in the face.

"There's your fucking book!" she screams at me. "Get _OUT!_"

I get out.

I sat down in the lobby and started reading. Raminus joined me.

"They say there was a fight in the Mystic Archives," says he, "what happened?"

"This did," says I, "as soon as Tar-Meena told me the title everyone began tearing the place apart for it. Then two morons snapped a book in half and..."

Raminus winced. "Oh, gods. That is not good. What're you reading anyway?"

"_Necromancer's Moon,_" says I, and then I stop. "This could mean something. Listen:

"_The Revenant, the Necromancer's Moon, watches over us all. His Form, ascended to Godhood, has taken its rightful place in the sky, and hides the enemy Arkay from us so that we may serve Him. Watch for the signs: when the heavenly light descends from above, hasten to His altars and make __your offering, so that He may bless you with but a taste of His true power. Grand Soul Gems offered to Him will be darkened, and can be used to trap the souls of the unwitting; a feat even the great N'Gasta would marvel at._"

I found a loose reed on the floor and used it as a bookmark.

Raminus looked thoughtful. "So, it involves altars and a ceremony that takes place when a celestial event occurs... Bothiel!"

The Bosmer had come in while we were talking and was ear-farming. Raminus filled her in, and she starts.

"Shade of the Revenant? Falcar was here some time ago, asking about just such a thing. Said it was for research. He had a large sheaf of notes with him about it." And she frowns at me. "I'm afraid I didn't have any more advice for him than I do for you. With the Orrery in such a state of disrepair, I have no point of reference."

I can feel my face burning or maybe it's the stinging from the impact of the book.

"Falcar did leave this behind; I think it fell from his notes as he left. I didn't pay it much attention, but perhaps it will be of use to you."

She hands me the note and Raminus looks over my shoulder.

_Primary sites:_

_The Dark Fissure_

_Fort Istirius_

_Fort Linchal_

_Wendelbek_

_Altars have been raised; Anchorites have been called. Watch the skies; once a week His Grace shines down on us._

"Bothiel," Raminus says, showing great restraint, "why didn't you turn this in before now? We could have captured Falcar alive."

"I didn't know!" Bothiel says indignantly, "I didn't think it important, and besides I just wanted the snot out of my face. I was rebuilding the main actuator mechanism at the time, or don't you remember?"

Raminus just gives her a look, then turns to me.

"The only one of these I can identify is Dark Fissure. It's a cave in the Valus Mountains near Cheydinhal, almost due east of Vahtacen. So, go there, see if there's an altar, and watch what happens when this 'shade' occurs, then report back to me."

Bothiel is looking over my other shoulder at the note. "Damnit," says she, "I don't recognise any of these names."

"Why's that important?" Raminus asks irritably.

"Because one of these altars may be near Camp Ales," she explains, "So our Conjurer here could retrieve my orrery parts at the same time!"

Which I take as my cue to flee.

-o-o-o-o-

I have a think at home and decide to head out to Dark Fissure, mainly because it's in an area I know. So, after some stiff travel and stiffer climbing, I crouch, armoured up and trying to be as still as a mouse, on a ledge above the entrance to Dark Fissure. In front of it, as expected, an altar, draped in the banners of necromancy, on Turdas 11 Frost Fall.

Nothing happened that night, except I got very cold and stiff.

I went to Cheydinhal the next day, did some exploring of local caves, found some nice bits, then high-tailed it back to Dark Fissure for another midnight watch. Magic ceremonies, especially dark ones, tend to be more effective, or only effective, at midnight.

Fredas became Loredas with the exact same lack of warmth and drama.

I went back to Cheydinhal, sold some salvage, then went and explored Fort Farragut. After avoiding deadly traps and deadlier than usual undead, I realised I had stumbled across the redoubt of worshippers of Sithis, none of whom were in attendance, thank heavens. I burgled the place and got out. Further on, I fended off an ogre and a pack of wolves near Rickety Mine. At least now I had some meat to munch on tonight.

Loredas became Sundas with a column of pale light, shining down directly on the altar in front of Dark Fissure. I watched the beam fascinated, then froze as the door opened and one of the corpse-jockeys emerged and strode to the altar.

He placed something on the altar, cried, "The Order of the Black Worm will feast on your soul," referred to a piece of paper, "mortal." Then he referred to the paper again and cast a Mysticism spell on the altar, and I watched as the gem blotched and darkened to an ugly black I had seen before.

I was aiming for his head, but the damn arrow went low. I jumped down and spelled and skewered him dead, then looted his pockets. A note and grand soul gems. I went back to the altar.

Thoughtfully, I picked up the gem, and equally thoughtfully put the other two gems on it, then looked at the note. Evidently the fool's speech was a sop to his need for theatrics.

I looked at the altar, swallowed hard, and cast soul trap on the altar, and again. Two black gems winked in the pale light beam like malevolent eyes.

I knew how they made black soul gems.

-o-o-o-o-

You couldn't see my tail for dust as I rocketed back to the University, Raminus, and warmer climes.

"Bloody hell," was Raminus' response to my report, "I shall pass the news on to the Council. Most troubling, indeed, to know that these are not merely myths, but there's more of the bastards than we thought."

"Oh hooray," says I, "so there's a right punch-up brewing."

"I'm afraid so, all joking aside. As such, you're being kicked upstairs. Arch-Mage Traven wants to give you your next set of marching orders, so you're allowed to use the teleport to speak with him, and you're being promoted again. Conjurer no more, Ra'jirra – you're a Magician now!"

All I could think of to say was, "Make sure Jarol knows won't you?"

Raminus just laughed.

"I..." then I trailed off, "I need to get used to this. I'd best deal to... um... Bothiel's bandits."

"And about time too," says the Bosmer in question from where she'd been standing in the shadows.

"Give Traven my excuses," says I, "I need a break."


	15. Ra'jirra Finds a Friend

**Chapter 14. In which Ra'Jirra Finds a Friend**

I spent about three days roaming the heath and highlands beyond Skingrad and Kvatch, hunting down first one, then the rest of the bandits lugging Bothiel's precious dwemer thingamajigs. Whoever controlled the bandits wasn't a fool – he'd dispersed the parts among five different camps.

Of especial note was the bandit who jumped me when I emerged from Niryastare – the more fool her – and a truly terrifying incident where I slew an entire camp, near Nonungalo, I think, and then was attacked by an ogre. As we circled in the dance, I shat myself in terror as I saw _six more ogres approaching from the east!_

Mercifully, they paid me and my most recent kill no attention as they headed west. So where the effing hell were they before? They could have killed off the bandits for me.

By this time I'd had a gutsful of the yellow-green hills, and I returned to an overjoyed Bothiel, before taking Raminus' advice and teleporting to the council chambers.

"Magician! Where the bloody hell have you been?" This came from a short Breton man whose aged face and snowy locks looked almost out of place atop a suit of daedric armour, except for the sense of authority and the ease with which he moved in it.

"My apologies, Arch-Mage," says I, "I have been reclaiming Guild property for Bothiel. And frankly I've been pulling myself together, given what I've seen."

His response is a snort. "I needed you three damn days ago. It may already be too late, except I've heard nothing, so maybe we're still in with a chance. I need you to find my spy."

"You have a spy in the necromancers?"

"No," says he sweetly, "He's a spy in the Imperial bedchamber." Serious again. "Last I heard he was sent off to Nenyond Twyll. Pass us your map?"

I do and he marks it. "Been to the inns there I see. Don't eat at the Inn of Ill Omen, he can't cook to save himself. Faregyl's known for its potato bread – fair makes your mouth water. Nenyond Twyll's due west of it on a ridge – you can't miss it. Just watch out for battlemagi."

"Why them?"

"I've been overridden," says he disgustedly, "To be perfectly Francis with you, I had to send them in to keep the council under control. Only thing is those battlemagi don't know Mucianus Allias is on our side, and I want him out of their hands. I'll give you three guesses why."

"The grove," says I.

"Not bad for a 'mere cat,' eh Irlav?" says Traven, looking over his shoulder at bloody Jarol. Jarol just smiles in a sickly fashion. Seems his little outburst bit him on the bum. The Altmer woman who I'd seen shooting out the library near a week ago also grinned tightly at Jarol's discomfort, but I got the impression she was ear-farming too.

"Anyway," Traven comes back to me, "Get your tail over to Nenyond Twyll, where you should have bloody been three days ago, find Mucianus and find out why he's been so quiet before either our lads or those _bastards_ do. The portal's to your right."

I went to my right.

-o-o-o-o-

I arrived outside Faregyl Inn without incident and watched disgustedly as the damn unicorn immediately lifted anchors for its grove without so much as a by-your-leave. Still, the last thing I needed was a unicorn preventing me from evading whatever guards the corpse-jockeys had set out.

To my surprise there weren't any, just a pack of wolves and an ogre carrying a bundle of huge potatoes. Sacks not being an ogre invention I decided to ask around.

I'm beginning to wonder if inns in Cyrodiil have to be built according to a set plan: public room below, and private quarters up above. If it wasn't for the fine Khajiit matron behind the bar and the younger and quite pretty she sitting at it, I could have sworn I was in Wawnet.

"Welcome, strangerr," she purrs at me. "This one is Abhuki, and this is Farregyl Inn. Was it food you seek, orr perhaps good bedding?"

Oh ho ho! I think to myself and decide to tread carefully.

"I'm Ra'jirra,", says I, "Looking for a friend who's got lost around this way." I rub my chin and add, "If I find him he'll probably need a place to rest. He's an Imperial bloke, would be heading westward. Anyone like that around recently?"

Well Abhuki looks surprised and the kit jerks her head up and around, making her fussy hairdo shake.

"Heading westwarrd? Perhaps this he you seek stole poorr S'jirra's jumbo potatoes!"

"S'jirra!" says Abhuki, "neverr mind your potatoes! Many pass west forr the hunt, it may have been someone else."

"But how is poorr S'jirra to make herr famous Farregyl potato bread without them?"

I look to the older and younger and pull out the sack of spuds the ogre was toting. "This them?" asks I.

I seem to make folks' eyes fall out on a regular basis. However, I _don't _usually make folks so overjoyed that they kiss me. Then again, S'jirra is quite free to kiss me any time she likes!

"Oh wonderrful Rra'jirrra!" she creeled with delight in my ear, much to the embarrassment of Abhuki and the amusement of the other patrons. "Oh, how did Rra'jirrra find them? Stupid S'jirrra to leave them outside all alone like that! All S'jirra wanted to do was give them some sun. Next thing, they werre gone!"

"An ogre took them," says I, "but ogrres are no match for Ra'jirra."

What? That east Elsweyr accent and dialect can be contagious. And attractive.

"Ogrres!" She pulls away from me with a start. "So close to ourr inn? Why, we could be murrderred in ourr beds! Oh, please stay and prrotect poorr–"

"S'jirrra!" Abhuki snapped, and S'jirra let go of me, unfortunately. "Rra'jirrra seeks his lost frriend. Hopefully he will not be long–?"

I blink, and decide "I shouldn't think so," along with a deposit on a room, is a good decision. "But the ogre is dead, so the inn should be safe for now."

"Then go rrescue yourr frriend," says Abhuki, "and do hurrry back."

"And herre," S'jirra pushes a loaf of the most delicious smelling bread into my grasp, "forr rrescuing my potatoes," (Abhuki rolls her eyes at that) "on the house. Rra'jirrra can have morre, but he must pay," says she with a twinkle in her eyes.

-o-o-o-o-

Maybe I should have stayed overnight, but I didn't want to keep Traven waiting. Besides, this time I wouldn't be alone. There would be big burly battlemages doing all the fighting.

My plan was to find the leader and point out that Mucianus was to be taken to Traven for interrogation. Special orders, sir. No sir, I don't know why. And with those cheerful thoughts in mind, I left the stars behind and entered the Ayleid hole.

Almost immediately I was greeted with "You!" from a rattled-looking Bosmer in full steel gear. "What are you doing here?"

"I was sent here," says I, "Traven wants –"

"Has the Council gone mad, sending you here alone?" cries he, not letting me finish, "There's no time. The others... they were waiting for us. They knew we were coming!"

"Hang on," says I, "Where's the rest of your lot?"

"I'm the only one left," says he, and he looks a bit shifty, and I look at him closer. His gear doesn't have many dings in it, and he's scared and not hiding it well. "Since I'm the junior in the squad, I was held back on sentry-go," he adds, explaining a lot.

"The Necromancers retreated further in," hang on, what's this shrill business? "but we've got to follow them. There's no time to waste!" Out comes an axe in a grip for dear life. "Follow me!"

And off he runs downstairs with total recklessness. He must have got his battlemaging license wrapped round a loaf of bread.

I yelled at him to wait, but before I reached the bottom of the stairs, I heard an almighty crashing of stone and a Bosmer's deathcry. The last battlemage, supposedly a wily warrior versed in combat and spellcraft, had charged straight into an Ayleid trap.

The rigged floor slab sank back to ground; the Bosmer's corpse came later, some of the spikes in the ceiling having stuck in his head. Almost as soon as it landed the weight triggered the trap again and away he went.

I took a breath after the third encore and jumped on as the slab lowered again, grabbed a leg and yanked as hard as I could, pulling him away before the trap went off again. _Now_ his suit had battle damage.

Ayleid floor traps can be avoided by skirting around the edges, although you do best to avoid the damn things altogether. This left me free to head around and deal to the undead and corpse-jockeys that were hanging around, patrolling in a sloppy fashion. This didn't mean they were pushovers though – their summonses made sure of that. Even so, I was able to cast Soul Freeze Burn on one of them – and it stuck.

The chamber reeked of blood and death; the cold light of a nearby Ayleid crystal made the loaded black gem even more hideous. There was a man's soul in there. I'd torn the essential energies from a more or less living, mortal man, and crushed his essence into a container. I sat for a while staring at the gem. I'd seen his eyes, he'd realised at the last what I'd done. Was he still aware in there? Unable to do anything except wait for the inevitable destruction when I used the gem for... what?

I suddenly realised I had no idea what I could do with the damnable thing.

Then I remembered that I was inside a necromancer stronghold and I was three days behind in extracting Mucus or whatever his name was.

I also noticed that there were no signs of other battlemagi, dead or otherwise. Evidently the gentles I had met were guards after the fact, and the real fighting had been further in. Pity that that Bosmer was stuck on door duty.

Beyond the chamber was a door which led to the 'Riellesel', whatever that was. Beyond the door was a woman shrouded in shadow. I unlimbered my Bow of Jolts and sent an arrow in her back.

To my surprise, she merely staggered and turned to face me, laughing!

"Oh, you poor dear," says she, eyes gleaming with madness, "I'm afraid you're late to the party. The guest of honour has already left!"

"What guest?" snaps I, "You talking about Mucianus?"

And she just giggles and coughs, seeing as my arrow stuck a lung. "Oh, I knew it! I do hate to disappoint you, but Mucianus is in no condition to be leaving. He's a Worm Thrall now, and shall be quite content here."

"You bastards," says I, "You filthy corpse-humpers..."

"Oh, stop that," says she around the blood filling her lungs. "A grim fate indeed, but one does not cross the Order of the Black Worm without suffering greatly for it."

There is nothing worse than a woman smiling at you with bloody froth all over her gob.

"I shall tell the master that you were here looking for him. Ooh! Perhaps I'll bring him your head as an offering!" foams she, and we danced, briefly.

Below, there was a sort of bridge affair in a large chamber full of water; apparently 'Riellesel' meant 'reservoir' or something like that. There were two more necros waiting to be introduced to death, but they weren't much of an issue.

The real scare came after I crossed the bridge. I almost didn't notice the telltale distortion until it was too late. That was my first introduction to a senior necromancer – a Keeper of the Dead. Despite being wailed on by a skeleton, a ghost _and_ an endless stream of summoned zombies, I finally skewered and spelled the bastard into his own grave.

I couldn't move afterwards. The swine had slammed me with a spell shattering my strength. I remember grimly eyeing the first bottle of home made potion before downing it, feeling the lightness of feather magic – as well as the side effects. And so I trumpeted my victory as I sought Mucianus.

I found a zombie in a secret chamber that didn't attack me. Unlike other zombies, this one seemed to sport rags resembling the remnants of a robe. A powder-blue one. With a familiar clasp.

"Mucianus?"

It nodded.

It nodded and looked at me.

It nodded and looked at me with anguish in its one recognisable eye.

He nodded and looked at me with anguish in his one recognisable eye and spread his arms beseechingly.

He howled in despair and I'm sure I screamed as I fled for the surface and the honest light.

I think he's still down there.

I remember standing outside the doorway staring up into the clean rain, wanting to return to Faregyl Inn and the attentions of S'jirra (and all right, Abhuki) and just be in a place with honest warmth and good people.

But I came to my senses. Firstly, Arch-Mage Traven had to be informed. Secondly, I was carrying a huge amount of salvage. And finally, well, I've mentioned what feather potions do to myself already.

So I lit out for the waterfront, got home, dropped off my salvage and turned around to find Traven blocking the door.

"Well, Magician?" snaps he, "It's been another three damn days. Where's Mucianus?"

And I just gape at him, feeling very old.

"When I give an order," he continues to snap, "I expect obedience. Instead I find your _scent trail_," and I think I blushed at that point, "ends up in this shack. Maybe I could porter for you while you run riot through the Merchant's District?"

And I just gape at him and feel the floor tilt slightly.

"Bloody hell, you're dead on your feet," snaps he, and strides over and hauls me to a seat at the kitchen table. "Siddown."

I saddown.

"What happened?" asks he a bit less nasty, "You don't look good. He's dead isn't he?"

"They..." I find my voice again, "they turned him into a worm thrall, that's what they called it. Zombie. Said the guest of honour had already left..."

"What do you mean?"

"She... she said something about a master," I stuttered. (Need I point out all this talk is cleaned up?) "Maybe he was there."

And Traven just shakes his head. "Orrery parts," mutters he, "And the battlemagi?"

"They're all dead," says I, then I remembered. "Wait. There was one guarding the entrance, but I never saw sign of any others. I mean, the last one said he was the only one left, I thought the rest were killed..."

Traven just stares at me. "This is bad, Magician," says he at last, "Very bad. Our spy _and_ an entire squad of battlemagi lost. So, what happened when you first entered the ruins?"

I don't remember much about that interrogation, except firelight playing on Traven's hair and his eyes boring intently and unblinkingly into me. He teased it out, piece by piece, until my terrified flight.

Then he blinked and leaned back. I think it was a spell.

"Ra'jirra," says he, "_I_ need to think about this, and _you_ need to rest and rethink your practises. Right now, your strength and endurance are shattered, and it's only those feather potions that got you out of there." Then he looks at me and fans his face. "Next time someone throws a spell at you, get out of the damn way. And another thing," and he jabs one gauntleted finger at me, "Illusion and Alteration. Practice them more. Otherwise you'll never learn enough to become invisible. Or wean yourself off feather potions."

"I've been practicing those," objects I.

"Not. Hard. Enough," snaps he, standing up. "Once you're rested, go to chapel or mix up some restoratives. Then speak to Polus. I'll send for you in about two days or so. And one more thing. Grow a pair. You can bet your tail there's going to be more necromancy in your future, so stop being a big girl's blouse about it. Alright?"

Mention of big girl's blouses made me think of S'jirra.

"_Alright?_" Oh, yeah, Traven.

"Yes, Arch-Mage," I finally manage to say.

He left, banging the door behind him. It took me a while before I got up the gumption to slink from the kitchen table to my bed, where I fell into a nightmarish sleep.


	16. Ra'jirra Takes a Holiday

**Chapter 15. Ra'Jirra Takes a Holiday**

The following morning – 18 Frost Fall – I fussed about creating restoratives before pulling on the merchant rags and taking a few bits of junk off to the Market District. First stop was the Copious Coinpurse and Thoronir, where I exchanged some silver trinkets and other clutter for a sack of spuds and melons.

"And there we are, thank you for your patronage," intones he with a sour look as he handed over the sacks and change.

"What's the long face for?" asks I.

"Haven't you heard? There's a new tax coming out soon," says he. "As if we don't pay enough already!"

"I blame Morrowind," says I, "Maybe it's a war tax, they're going to do something about all those damn daedra or whatever's rampaging there."

"I've heard stories," snorts he, "But they're all exaggerated I'm sure. Why else would Helseth and House Dres be picking apart the carcass of House Indoril? If there was a daedra problem, they wouldn't be doing _that!_"

And we both agreed taxes stink and new taxes stink even worse.

"Anyway," says I, "What's with Rohssan? Went to her place but she wasn't open yet."

"Rohssan? I think she was out on the town last night with some friends. I was, well, let's just say I saw her being assisted home around midnight."

"Oho," says I, "I'll be sure to talk quietly."

And we have a good laugh and away I go.

En route I saw an Imperial that I've seen hawking broadsheets around the Waterfront heading out of the offices of the Black Horse Courier – slowly. "Take it easy Vlan," a Khajiit said to him from the doorway. Evidently he'd been on the town as well. Maybe _I_ should have gone on the town.

Rohssan did in fact look a bit second-hand. "Old friends," she explained, "From long ago." She smiled then, winced and rubbed her forehead. "I didn't want to leave them... gods, am I paying for it now."

"Well, make sure you drink plenty of water," says I, "I've been there, done that myself." She just grins at me. "Still, I've got these magic greaves to get fixed, so are you up to it?"

"Making money?" She perks up and peers at my greaves, which have an agility enchantment on them. "At least there's no hammering involved. How in hells did they get in this state?"

I make up a story about seeking shelter from the weather and finding necromancers instead.

"Ugh!" says she, "Those people turn my stomach. Stealing people's souls for the gods-know-what... Did you hear that they violated the sacred grove of the Mage's Guild?"

"Certainly did," says I without going into details. "But being in the guild means I'm likely to run into them again. So while I'm here," and I fiddle noisily with my purse, "maybe some pointers on armour care? Like as not I'll be too far away to run back to you."

She actually giggled at that and waved me over. About an hour later I left with a bit more of the old smith's knowledge and about a thousand less drakes – ten septims and twenty drakes to be precise. She'd obviously not been in the best of moods when I plonked that idiot battlemage's armour, and a silver axe, on the counter; the haggle for a trade-in was a bit rugged.

All that was left was two staves. Navigating clockwise around the various hawkers, carts, layabouts and other pedestrians, taking big steps and little ones, I found myself in front of a door labelled 'Rindir's Staffs'. Since all signs pointed to this being a good to place to flog off excess staves I went in.

"Hail Khajiit!" This came almost immediately from a well-dressed and slightly overstuffed Bosmer looking over the counter. "I am Rindir. _You_ are looking for a staff. And here we are in Rindir's Staffs." He made a wide gesture with both arms. "Just fancy that!"

For some reason that made me smile.

"Now that's what I call a coincidence," says I, "since I'm looking to trade for a good 'un. What do you have?"

And Rindir takes my staves and eyes them. "They're a bit worn," says he, "but I can give you a septim or two for them. But enough of yours, let me show you mine!"

I looked over the staves he offered carefully. Rindir took good care of his stock, but nothing really made me hungry, except one.

"What's that fancy looking thing there?" I pointed to a staff behind the counter that positively screamed with Destruction energies, almost warping the gold banding about its shaft.

"Aha!" Rindir grinned as though to say _here comes the big sale!_ "Behold Apotheosis! Smite your enemies with all the power of the atronachs – frost, fire _and_ shock! Trust me, nothing will withstand your wrath when Apotheosis is yours sir!"

"A weapon fit for a Magician such as I," breathes I, gently jiggling it for weight and balance. I didn't have to tell Rindir I wanted – _needed_ – this weapon. If I was of a bad bent, I would have rushed out the door then and there. "What would this be worth?"

"Not much at all," says he, "why, you'll get change out of nine-and-thirty septims."

Yes, that was with trade-in. Unfortunately, while he was interested in some of my other gewdads, I kept coming up several septims short. I just didn't have enough in my purse. Rindir was polite, but immoveable regarding a discount.

"Well then," says I, "I'll just take however many septims you'll give me for these staves, here, and go raise the cash. Maybe sweep the streets or something."

Rindir actually burst out laughing. "Oh good one! Seriously though, there's talk of scofflaws and goblins hiding in the city sewers. Maybe they can give you a loan!"

"I'll be sure to ask," says I pocketing the few coins he passed me and heading for the door. "I will return! Apotheosis," and I pointed past Rindir with a dramatic gesture, "wait for me my love!"

And so I left the Market District for the Waterfront with Rindir's laughter and a few funny looks following me.

-o-o-o-o-

Emerging from the foetid tunnel that links the Waterfront with the Temple District I almost walked into Raminus.

"Hail Warlock," says he, "and before you say 'What?' that's Traven's orders. He also told me to give you this letter." And he hands me a fairly fat chunk of parchment bearing the guild seal.

"Black Horse Courier," came from behind me, and I turned to see that rather second-hand looking Imperial – oh yes, Vlan – I'd seen emerging from the broadsheet's offices. "Everyone needs a copy of the Black Horse Courier," he added without any real enthusiasm.

"I'll take one," says I, and he picks one out and hands it to me as though his arm doesn't work properly and also as if holding a dead fish.

"You all right there, uh, Vlan?" asks I.

"No," mutters he, "not that we're friends, thank'eeser," then limps off half-heartedly plying his trade.

"What's the matter with him?" Raminus wondered. The answer came straight from the Horse's mouth.

_**GRAY FOX UNMASKED!**_

_Vlanarus Kvinchal recently admitted to being the notorious thief, the Gray Fox. Under questioning by the Imperial Watch, he also confessed to being the reincarnation of Tiber Septim, the love-child of Lord Stendarr, a were-shark, and the mother of Hieronymus Lex. Only after he spent a night in the Imperial prisons was it discovered that Vlanarus had recently consumed a near-lethal dose of skooma._

And we look at each other then at the departing _Vlanarus._

"Oh dear," chorus we and read on.

_Vlanarus is now back home and recuperating from the hospitality of the Imperial Watch and from the close attention he received during his interrogation. He speculates that he might be able to work again in a month or two, so long as it doesn't involve walking or lifting anything heavier than a beer mug. The sometimes-dockworker has sworn a solemn oath never to trifle with Skooma again, and earnestly warns everyone to stay away from the Orum gang._

"Silly Imperial," says I rolling up the rag, "Skooma is for Kahjiit."

Raminus just laughs and walks off, task accomplished.

-o-o-o-o-

At home I opened Traven's letter.

_Warlock Ra'jirra,_

_About soultrap spells. You were especially disturbed by using a black soul gem. Don't be._

_Soultrap doesn't. What it does do is collect the energy released when body and soul part ways. This energy bond is also revealed when you cast detect-life spells. If the times weren't as dire as they are now I'd tell you off to Delmar for a month to learn all this and more, but we don't have the time._

_As per our discussion, you will use the next two days to:_

_collect as many souls as you can – you'll need them and magickal weapons in the future._

_practice Conjuration, Alteration and Illusion. Your magickal abilities are hopelessly out of balance, favouring Mysticism, Destruction, Restoration and Alchemy. Buy spells you can't cast yet and work towards being able to do so._

_get all your equipment into top condition and ready for your upcoming task. Expect necromancers._

_I recommend going soul-hunting for a couple of days. Return by sunrise 20th. Yes, Frost Fall. I expect you to report directly to me then. As Warlock, you don't need permission to enter the Council Chamber._

_Do not make me wait again._

_TRAVEN, ARCH-MAGE._

_P.S. Once the emergency is over, you will be expected to attend regular lectures by our resident scholars and take workshops and assignments to guildhalls as per our apprentices._

Time to take stock, I thought. It was clear that Traven was a hard master, and worried about the necromancer threat. Something was up, and I was being used as the – well, _champion,_ I told myself. _Sacrificial lamb,_ another part of me whispered.

From points south came a third whisper, _stuff that, let's visit S'jirra! _Um, no, thinks I. Traven might not be understanding. Besides, I began to excuse myself, if some corpse-jockey noticed I was hanging out a lot at Faregyl Inn, they might put two and two together and... I kiboshed that line of thought.

Much of my equipment was already in good shape, but something I knew was that Traven was right about my skills. But try getting a battle-crazed bandit to hang fire while you whistle up another bound cuirass.

"Time to suit up," I muttered to myself, but first sat down at the table and laid out my map, using a couple of books to spread it flat. Closing my eyes, I stabbed a point at random.

I found myself aiming at a point roughly east of Chorrol and north of Fort Ash. I shrugged. As good a place to pass a day and a half as any.

-o-o-o-o-

East of Chorrol and mostly north of Fort Ash is an Ayleid ruin named Lindai. I observed gravestones near the entrance, which baffled me; why on earth had people come all this way from civilisation to bury their dead? Nevertheless it told me what to expect. There would be undead.

And there were undead all right, undead by the half-dozen. I stood it as long as I could before fleeing past the blade traps to the surface, heavier by silver and shields enough that I needed to repeatedly cast a fortification of strength to make it to Chorrol by the morn of the 19th.

Once inside, I went straight to the Mage's Guildhall and took a seat. A nearby book, _A Game at Dinner, _took my attention and I learned a thing or two about alchemy, despite bittergreen being hard to come by in these parts. Afterwards I dozed until I heard the guildies moving about.

"Ho, Ra'jirra!" It was Baldy the Bosmer – what was his name? Athragaer? - "Nice to see you again. What brings you here?"

I stood up, slowly, and cast that fortifier again. "Flogging off treasure from Lindai," says I.

"That necropolis? Whatever for?"

I told him I'd been out practising my skills. This led into a helpful hour's lecture on the ins and outs of Alteration, which left me a little lighter in purse before Rasheeda over at Hammer and Axe made me lighter in burden.

My purse was heavy, and I felt heavy enough to achieve Apotheosis. Three hours later, Rindir dropped a house on me.

"Ah, yes, Apotheosis," says he, "You know, I've had some offers on that staff. Very good offers as a matter of fact."

"What do you mean, offers?" says I, smelling a rat, "Is the price thirty-nine septims or not?"

It was not. Now the gouging little tree-hugger wanted _sixty_ septims to give it to me! And I'll give the little bugger credit, he stuck to his story like glue. He _knew _he could simply have sold the damn staff outright, but he'd been so kind, there was a gentleman on order, he said, unless I changed my mind?

I said I wouldn't change my mind. He admitted that, while I was lacking in coin, a suitable trade, say in enchanted clothing, would be admissible...?

I said I'd see about it and stormed off.

I took my bad mood into a cave actually quite close to the bridge to Weye; Dzonot was the name scratched on the door. Bottles galore on the ground outside suggested either a very happy fisherman or bored bandits. And this close to the city!

Inside I crept, then heard a crashing sound and a male death cry. "What was that?" said a woman's voice from above and ahead, in the cavern that opened above me. I froze as a wet dream in boots and a battle-axe – nothing else – stalked out of the cavern mists and peered at a corpse, which apparently had walked straight into a swinging trap set up beneath a natural bridge. That's if the fact his face was plastered across the back of his skull and his brains were either side of him meant anything.

"Some male," she called with chilling indifference, "no use to us now."

She then turned and stalked away. In my night-eyed vision, blue female outlines dispersed and went about whatever it is amazons do when they're at home. I wasn't at home, so I crept forwards until I could raid the corpse's pockets.

Outside I looked at my spoils. The most interesting thing was the most recent entries in a diary belonging to one Amel Lentus, which began:

_I am in love. It was sheer coincidence that brought me out onto the walkway today, mother wished me to purchase fresh slaughterfish in Weye. It was on my way home that I saw her - my glorious nymph, so full of spark and skill that she was slaughtering mudcrabs while wearing nothing but a pair of boots and her sword._

_I do not know whether to curse or bless the fish mother wanted! Were it not for them, I would never have passed by to see her, but were it also not for them I might have had the time to stop and learn her name._

I don't need to repeat what followed, since you readers are intelligent types and don't use your balls for brains. Those of you who do, remember poor Amel.

I decided to go beat up goblins instead. Fat Back Cave, southwest of the Arcane University, is full of them.

While creeping through the upper levels, I filled my remaining soul gems and finally achieved an understanding of both Alteration and Conjuration that, when I informed Traven later, moved him so much he grunted and said, "Amazing. You've finally reached the level of the most stupid apprentice ever."

I didn't care since I could now unlock things with magic.

By the time I emerged to the surprise of a herd of wild horses over on the mainland bank, it was the wee hours of the 20th, and I headed back to my little abode to dump the loot fast. I didn't want to keep Traven waiting!


	17. Ra'jirra and the Vampire Hunters

**Chapter 16. In Which Ra'jirra Returns to Skingrad**

I arrived promptly in the council chambers at half-past six and ended up cooling my heels with a couple of books. One went on interminably about some sort of conspiracy involving the Psijic Order, which I had trouble following. The other, _Implements of Violence,_ made me gasp briefly, and made Jarol, who was also waiting, look at me.

"Ah!" says he, "I see you're reading my work. Takes your interest, eh?"

"I recall finding a staff that fits this description," says I, "in an Ayleid ruin east of Leyawiin. I ought to give it a closer look."

"Really?" Jarol perks right up. "Why not bring it here and I can have a look at it." I agree and wonder if it's still in my chest at the old lodge down there.

Traven arrived promptly at nine. After the exchange of unpleasantries, namely him grilling me over what I'd been doing, he grunted.

"Remember Skingrad? Count Hassildor wants to see you."

"_Me?_ He doesn't want to dong me another one does he?"

Caranya makes an unladylike noise – that's elves for you, always ear-farming! – and Traven just smiles thinly at that. "Don't ask me, ask him. He asked for you especially. Apparently he has vital information, but he's playing games." And he sighs, and adds, "Mind you, I'd be playing coy after that business with Hosidius too, if I were him."

"All right," says I, "I'll be off then."

"Good," says Traven, then adds, "Don't give him another excuse will you?"

And Raminus wondered why I was chuckling when I materialised in the foyer.

To my confusion the damnable unicorn was hanging around the Chestnut Handy again, as though waiting for me. I simply cannot understand why. If I drop anchor in the middle of nowhere, away it goes back to the grove. If I come to the big smoke, it happily waits around. Usually.

-o-o-o-o-

After arriving at Skingrad I made my way directly to the castle. The Argonian woman, Hal-Liurz, had apparently taken over Hosidius' duties. "Very well," said she when I explained why I was there, "Take a sseat. The Count will be with you sshortly. Sso no need for bookss thiss time, yess?"

"What happened to Hosidius anyway?" I wondered aloud to the large well-dressed orc loitering nearby.

"Nobody knows," says he in carefully modulated tones, "But I seem to recall that he vanished about the time _you_ were last here. Making a nuisance of yourself, as I recall." And he frowns at me as though I – well, I probably _had_ landed the killing blow on Hosidius. But he started it.

About the time I was getting hot under the collar from the orc's accusing stare, Hal-Liurz reappeared, followed by Count Hassildor, as usual in his full suit of armour. I stood to meet him.

"Ra'jirra the Warlock," hails he, "keeping your helm on I see."

I feel my cheeks burn and he grins. "Let us just say I don't want it to happen again, my Lord. Actually I don't think selected councillors want it to happen again either."

And he bursts out laughing before collecting himself and covering his mouth.

"I fear this time you may find the results no more to your liking than the last. Less so, perhaps," says he rather more seriously, and I realise his refined, slightly flat tones are what that orc is trying to imitate. "The information I have for your guild will not be met with smiles and hand-shakes, I fear."

"It's that bad, eh?" says I.

"I'm afraid so, but first things first. I have called you here because from our previous encounter, I believe you can be trusted."

"What do you want me to do?" I may be a hayseed but I'm not thick. You want thick? Try old Nug. If you belted him on the bonce with a warhammer you'd have to spend an entire day explaining why he should fall down. You want thicker? Take a warhammer to Nug's bonce and look in the mirror.

Anyway Count Hassildor looks at me approvingly. "It's a minor thing," says he, "A nest of vampires has sprung up in Bloodcrust Cavern, southeast of town."

"_Again?_" cries I, to his obvious surprise. "Sorry my Lord, but the first time I came here I explored that cave, and cleaned out vampires – nearly became one too!" I shake my head. "How the hell did they come back?"

"You took on an entire cave of vampires by yourself?" Hassildor looks at me. "I'm impressed."

Now, the main hall of Skingrad Castle is fairly gloomy, and the Count is standing in shadow. And he's smirking at my expression as I put two and two together from that glimpse when he laughed.

"It's not just the vampires is it?" states I, "You've got vampire hunters."

"Exactly," says he, "very well done, Warlock. Rumours have been spreading about vampires in the town, and, well, I cannot let my identity be compromised."

"Do you know anything about them?" asks I, "the hunters, I mean."

"There are at least, three, under one Eridor. From what I hear he's rather good."

"Well then," says I, "If they want vampires they'll get vampires. And either they leave happy, or..." and I shrug. "I get their scraps."

Hassildor looks at me with even more respect. "You're smarter than you look," says he, "You understand what to do and why. Go now."

I go now.

-o-o-o-o-

Shortly thereafter I had a pleasant conversation with Falanu Hlaalu about bittergreen.

"Now there's a taste of home," says she wistfully. "You know, stewed bittergreen was a traditional dish, the perfect thing with mudcrab meat or nix-hound. Sure you could get poisoned if you didn't cook it right, but..." and she sighs again. "I don't have any, but I do have these..."

And we discussed the relative merits of volcanic glass, timsa-come-by, golden and noble sedge, and then she opens a package and –

"Faugh!"

"'Faugh' is right," says she with one hand pinching her nose and the other holding a piece of meat that's a dark green. At first I think it's rotten until I see that the green is too consistent – it's the colour of the flesh!

"Durzog meat," says she, "hunted from beneath Mournhold, city of Blessed Amalexia." She puts the meat away and opens a few windows. "They're dangerous beasts, mounts of the goblins that infest the caverns beneath. I've got a picture here somewhere..."

Goblins are ugly, vicious little beasts. Durzogs are ugly, vicious large beasts, like a daedroth gone wrong. I've never been to Mournhold, let alone delved into its legendary Old Mournhold, and with monsters like that down there I never will.

Anyway I asked about Eridor, claiming I had a message for him.

"Eridor? Oh, you mean the tree-hugger who claims he's a vampire hunter. Came in with a little speech about 'we mean you no harm' and other rot. I told him to ask at the chapel, since they'd hear about such things. What a poser!"

Sinderion didn't know anything about vampire hunters, but I picked up a few elixirs of exploration before heading over to the chapel.

I spotted Eridor right away by seeing where citizens were fleeing from. He was a Bosmer with a battleaxe that came up to his nose, leather trimming, and a topknot adding an extra inch to his height.

He saw me approaching, and as I closed I heard him mutter, "Oh, no. Not another one," before straightening up and reciting, "Citizen of... Skingrad. Please be advised that I am here on official business, and wish no harm..."

And I just looks at him. Picture the scene: a Bosmer in brown leather (except for a cuirass) and me, a Khajiit almost all in elven togs and toting the white stallion.

"Oh, forget it," says he as he realises that I could probably dismantle him unaided. "Let me guess: you're worried about what my men and I are doing here in town, right?"

"Someone told me you're looking for vampires," says I, "In the wrong place."

Eridor doesn't like that. "Wrong place?" says he nastily. "I'll have you know I'm one of the best vampire hunters in all Cyrodiil, f-Khajiit!" I think he remembered I'm in full jacket. "Not to put a fine point on it, but I don't usually head off in the wrong direction! So, where _is_ this 'right place' then?"

"I've seen the bloodsuckers at Bloodcrust Cavern," says I, "_right _here." I point to it on my map. "Just go out the east gate and follow the road to where it jinks north, then go south toward Silorn and look to your right. You can't miss it – there's fires and skulls outside."

Eridor perks right up at that, and so do I. Knowing my sense of direction I'd have sent him towards Anvil without that map.

"My friend," says he expansively, "That's the information we've been seeking. We'll have to pay them a visit soon. Thanks for the tip, friend!"

And he shakes my hand and away he goes. "That got rid of him," says a guard behind me.

"Seconded," says I, "I hope he's got a decent suit for vampires."

"Are there really vampires in Bloodcrust?"

I just look at him. "I have it on the highest authority."

-o-o-o-o-

It wasn't until the wee hours of 21 Frost Fall that Eridor and his band appeared. "Hail Khajiit," says he from behind me, where I'm watching the cave door, "keeping vigil?"

"Yep," says I, "There's been no movement, but I heard talking. I think they're all inside."

"Tell me, Khajiit," says he thoughtfully, "you seem well equipped, how come _you_ haven't slain the vampires?"

I turn and look at him. Eridor, and his band, are to my eye hopelessly ill-equipped, not enough armour between them to protect one man let alone four. I take a breath.

"I'm afraid of undead," says I quickly. It wasn't a total lie either.

Eridor snorts. "Big baby! Tell you what, follow us and we'll show you how it's done. If you're good, we'll leave one for you to finish off!"

And so I followed them in the wake of some unkind laughter.

The vampires had the second to last laugh. Eirdor's mob's technique wasn't much more than overwhelming ferocity, with the group barrelling down the right-hand tunnel to their deaths.

And it was up to me to work hard for the last laugh, slaying the half-dozen remaining vampires and collect their precious dust. It was fearful, nasty work, and to this day their bloodless faces haunt my nightmares. And then there was that terrible incident with the skooma, which led to my wife forcing me to take a solemn pledge to never touch a drop of the stuff again. She didn't have to force me too hard.

I emerged from the cave feeling a little tired, dumped some loot on the step, then reported to the Count.

"My vampiric senses tell me," says he with some amusement, "that the animals in Bloodcrust Cavern are no more."

"That is correct, my Lord," says I, not rising to the bait.

"My guard commander also tells me," he goes on, "that Eridor and his band were seen leaving the city early this morning by the east gate, then cutting south towards Bloodcrust Cavern, followed by a Khajiit in elven armour and a purple cape."

"That would also be correct, my Lord," says I.

"And now a Khajiit in elven armour and purple cape returns alone."

"Well, Eridor and company _were_ quite good," says I, "but they ran out of steam around their fourth bl-vampire and I had to finish off the rest myself."

"So the work is complete, and we can discuss the information promised."And he grows solemn. "Your guild does not fully appreciate the danger which quickly approaches. Hopefully when you return to them, their eyes will be opened."

"Danger, you say," says I. "This is about those bloody corpse-jockeys isn't it?"

"The Necromancers are a sign of things to come. An old acquaintance of the guild has come to Cyrodiil, and they are answering his call." He sighs, and then looks grim. "While I do not know for quite what purpose he has arrived, I believe the Guild of Mages is in great danger. Mannimarco has returned."

"Hang on," says I, "are we talking _the_ Mannimarco? As in Galerion and Mannimarco? Not some Johnny-Jump-Up claiming the name?"

"I do not think so," says he, "and we made sure when we... asked our informant at Fort Linchal." Evidently I wasn't the only one to see the Shade of the Revenant at that fort. "Nearly invincible, he has established himself somewhere in the north of Cyrodiil. This is all that I know."

This was bad, I could tell. Some great undead necromancer – how else would he have 'lived' so long? – from the mists of time, back to finish off Galerion's legacy – the guild. And by extension _me._

But Hassildor is still talking. "See to it that your leader, Traven, learns this as soon as possible. I have no love for your guild, but I have no wish to see it destroyed either."

"Neither do I, my Lord Hassildor," says I grimly, "therefore with your permission I will depart at once."

"Before you go," he raises a hand, "one more thing. Yesterday afternoon a Khajiit in elven armour was seen riding to the city on a unicorn, about two of the clock. Then, late last night, two guardsmen on the roads encountered a Khajiit, in elven armour, riding a unicorn near where the trail to Silorn meets the road. And now, I am told, a unicorn waits at the gate below for its rider, described as a Khajiit with elven armour and a purple cape." He looks me up and down, and his mouth twitches. "_Is _it true?"

I can't hide a smile. "True as there is daylight outside," says I, "And if it wasn't for that daylight I'd introduce you to him myself."

And Count Janus Hassildor roars with laughter! "Oh well done Warlock! Maybe you'll make Arch-mage some day. Let me know the next time you are in Skingrad, and I will commission a portrait. But," and he sobers, "go now. Traven must know what I have told you."

I go now, rubbing my eyes tiredly as I emerge into the sunlight.

-o-o-o-o-

I arrived yawning at the Arcane University about noon and made my way to the council chambers and Traven. "Well, Warlock?" says he, "what happened?"

"Vampires," says I, and fill him in on the business briefly. "But the Count says Mannimarco has returned, he's put out the call, and he's holed up somewhere up north."

Jarol was ear-farming and gasped in shock. Caranya followed suit a little later.

Traven just stares at me. "Are we talking about _the_ Mannimarco? Or just some jumped-up high priest who's–"

"They raided Fort Linchal," says I, "and brought one or two to the question. Count Hassildor himself said that it was a certainty this was _the_ Mannimarco, like in the ballad of Horides."

Now I'm not known for sweet language, but Traven's ensuing brown streak shocked me, Caranya and Jarol with its force, vehemence and lack of repetition.

"I thought necromancy was virtually eliminated from Cyrodill," said he, once you took the lumpy bits out, "How could I be so wrong? Now the grove's been desecrated, guildhalls sabotaged, traitors found..." He lets fly with a bellow that makes us all jump. _"POLUS!"_

A rather startled Raminus appeared in the chamber about ten seconds later. "Y-You called, Arch-mage?"

"He's promoted." Pointing at me. "Call the damn Council. Emergency meeting." Pointing at a startled Caranya. "Ra'jirra, why are you yawning?" Pointing at me again

"Been up all night sir," says I.

"In a vampire cave? _Think_, damnitall! Go get a cure. Then go warn the Bruma guildhall. Then expect my summons. Dismissed!"

I left, I thought, I chugged a cure disease potion I had on me.

_Damnitall! _Actually, the my preferred term was _For the love of the Nine NOT AGAIN!_


	18. Ra'jirra Makes Unexpected Discoveries

**Chapter 17. Ra'jirra Makes Unexpected Discoveries**

I decided the best thing to do was saddle up for Bruma first. I arrived after nightfall and made my way into the guild. Turning towards the downstairs dormitories I ran into Volanaro.

"Ra'jirra!" says he, "Long time no see." And he looks me up and down. "You've been doing well for yourself – obviously."

"All hard work and drudgery," says I in a put-upon tone, and we have a good laugh.

"I wish I could travel the lands," says he wistfully, "but I'm stuck here in this dank little icebox." And he sighs. "Still, what can I do for you?"

"Pass on some news," says I, and I quickly fill him in as we head downstairs and park on a bench. His cheerful face gradually bent out of shape with surprise, then shock, then alarm. By the time I'd finished, Jeanne Frasoric had parked herself on the other side of me and was looking very distraught.

"But are you _sure_ this is the –" she starts.

"Absolutely certain," snaps I, "and if you don't believe me you can bloody well ask the Arch-Mage, and Count Hassildor, and any corpse-jockeys you run across. So keep an eye out, and sound the alarm if anything happens. Speaking of anything happening," and I turn to Volanaro, "Traven said as I was leaving, 'Get that prankster to teach you his special.'"

And Volanaro goes red and Jeanne harrumphs. "Well! Well... I know how to summon a dremora lord. It's a complex spell, and it requires a great deal of magicka. On the other hand..."

With most of my gold in Volanaro's pocket and my head full of conjuration magics an hour later, I went to bed. He hadn't been lying. Dremora are dangerous and fiddly summonings, and their lords are worse. However Volanaro had also taught me how to summon a skeleton for practice, "and," he'd added, "it'll help a little in combat."

You might wonder about Apotheosis. Well, I'd had a think and given up on it. No doubt if I fronted up with nine-and-sixty septims, the price would have gone up _again._ Screw Rindir.

-o-o-o-o-

The following morning I got up early and was watching the sun climb the peak the locals called Gnoll Mountain, waiting for a store called Novaroma to open, when I hear "Good day," from behind me. The speaker was a well-dressed, middle-aged stomach attached to a Nord.

"I'm Tolgan, herald to Countess Narina Carvain here in Bruma," he introduces himself, "She requests your company at your earliest convenience."

"She does?" and I blink at him in confusion. "What for?"

"Countess Carvain would prefer if you speak to her in person," says he. "She also said to present you with this stipend as a taste of things to come."

Said stipend was a quarter-septim. Hardly enough to whet my appetite, but the door behind me was unlocked and I turned to see an Altmer giving me a funny look. I put the 'stipend' away. "All right then, when should I go to her?"

"Now would be a good time," says he, "My Lady Carvain holds court from eight bells in the morning until six in the evening each day." He paused and cocked a meaningful ear at the obvious tolling from the chapel.

And so I tell him I will be there soonest and he's all very well and good day and away he and his stomach go.

"What was that all about?" I ask nobody in particular as I enter the store.

"I bet it's something to do with the Countess' collection of artefacts," says the Altmer, eyeing where I stashed that little purse. "_Our_ tax drakes at _work_."

"Well, never mind that for now," says I, "I've been waiting on you first, so you take priority."

And he laughs. "Oh, let me introduce myself. I am Suurootan, proud owner of Novaroma, a little piece of Heartland Empire here in the lofty Jeralls."

And we have a little dicker and I offload some excess salvage. "Now remember," says I at the end, "I expect you to curse me up and down the town about how I ripped you off on those enchanted axes – with any luck it'll get word to the Countess and she'll pay me properly!"

And we have a good laugh at that and off I go to the castle. I would just like to mention that I enjoy feather spells very much. So you know.

-o-o-o-o-

The countess was easy to spot: her throne was in the middle of several display cases, mostly holding swords of an oddly light and appealing blade and round, elaborately decorated shields.

"Milady Carvain," says I with a bow, "I am Ra'jirra, Warlock of the Mage's Guild–"

"And that stipend Tolgan gave you whetted your appetite," says she quickly. I caught her eyes as she scanned me up and down; a very sharp, analytical stare. She was up with the play, no doubt about that. "You've noted the Akaviri relics I'm displaying."

I couldn't exactly disagree with that so I didn't.

"Well, it's safe to say I'm a collector of sorts. I've invested a great deal of time and money acquiring these bits of ancient history," says she with great pride, "In fact, I'd be so bold as to proclaim my collection the most complete in all Cyrodiil; perhaps even beyond." Her eyes go sharp again. "Except for one thing."

"Which you want me to find," says I, "what is it?"

"I'd heard you were blunt and to the point," says she, "I'm of course referring to The Draconian Madstone." And she looks at me expectantly so I play along.

"That's a relic I haven't heard of before," says I truthfully, "What do you know about it?"

And she beams at the chance to play scholar to my apprentice.

"The stone is a fine bit of Akaviri craftsmanship. Worn like an amulet, this talisman is said to protect the wearer from poisons of any type. The Madstone appears as a snake coiled around and encircling itself. The eyes of the snake are supposed to be precious gems or some such. Through my sources, I've learned that the last reported location of the Madstone was the ruins at Pale Pass."

"And why would they be there?" asks I. Now you might think that history lessons are boring, but I ask because there is no knowledge without power. History is always helpful in explaining why you'll find undead here and not over there, or why Sheogorath has an obsession with cheese and evisceration, or something totally unexpected but no less useful.

"Back at the end of the First Era, raiders from the continent of Akavir attempted to gain a foothold here in Tamriel," she explained, "At that time, the Empire was broken into smaller factions. Reman Cyrodiil decided to unify them and form an army to repel the Akaviri raiders – the Army of Reman. The two armies clashed in what's now northern Cyrodiil. The Akaviri were strong and well supplied, but they went through Morrowind on the way to their objective," and she smirks, "and dismissed the response it would garner from Vivec."

Ouch. You don't tick off gods. Even the local gods.

"He attacked them from the rear, right?"

"Exactly!" cries she, pleased at such an apt pupil. "They didn't count on Lord Vivec forming an alliance with the Trident-Kings of the Dreugh. From Morrowind, he struck at their rear flank," she made a chopping motion with her hands. "Not only did this make the Akaviri fight on two fronts, it also cut off access to reinforcements and supplies from the sea."

"And that was them all done," says I.

"Not quite. The Army of Reman knew that the organized Akaviri forces were commanded from a hidden post in the mountains. Ah, you guessed it, Pale Pass. And that's where Reman focussed his efforts. As his forces fought their way across the Jerall Mountains, the Akaviri suddenly surrendered. It was assumed they were overwhelmed and gave up." And she frowns. "The only strange part was that the command post and Pale Pass were never found. It was dismissed as rumour and the Army of Reman celebrated."

"Except it's not rumour is it? You know where it is."

"I certainly do," she says all smug. "It's come to my attention that the post _did _exist and it happens to be the last reported location of the Draconian Madstone." She leaned forwards, giving me an interesting view of her north face. "If you retrieve the Draconian Madstone for me, I'll be happy to compensate you by rewarding you with another Akaviri artifact I already have an example of. Are you game?"

Now I was interested; it was a change from corpse-jockeys and besides Traven would probably like to pay her a visit once this Madstone was in her possession. "I'm up for it," says I.

"Yes!" and she bounces in her seat with excitement before getting control of herself. "I had a feeling you'd accept. Good. Then let me tell you how you're going to find the Madstone," she says happily. "I've come into the possession of a diary written by an Akaviri messenger. I suspect that the text within can lead you to the ruins." And she jabs a thumb over her shoulder to a mouldering book in a case. "Tolgan!"

Tolgan's stomach appeared, followed by the man himself. "You called milady?"

"Tolgan, fetch the diary translation and the key please." And as he trundled his stomach away, the Lady Caravain turned to me. "I'll give you a translation of the passages we could still read, since I doubt they teach Akaviri at the Arcane University. I've also included a rough map that was drawn in the diary as well, and a unique key that was supposedly found with the diary. I'm assuming it will prove useful when you arrive at the site."

And so Tolgan reappears and hands me the documents and key, and I make my polite farewells and away I go.

-o-o-o-o-

Being the day was still young, I emerged from the northern gate and looked at the map provided. It was actually more a graphic. Dragonclaw Rock had an arrow pointing left from it to a statue, 'The Sentinel', according to the diary excerpt, which in turn aimed upward to a door. So once I found the rock, I guessed I had to go west to a statue, then north. Fine.

My map of Cyrodiil showed that the road to Bruma actually also extended a short way north, then broke into a little dotted line marked as an old trade route to Cheydinhal, ominously marked "UNPATROLLED". There be bandits, thought I, so I strode northward with bow ready.

As it was, the only menace I encountered was a wolf that never saw me coming. But from its movements it was a young wolf, and like all young 'uns dumb enough to think an armoured Khajiit was a tasty snack.

Approaching the statue – it wasn't that far away after all – I felt a sense of being watched. As usual, the watchers were beyond the range of Watchfulness, my long-range life sensing spell. I quickly found out they were trolls. They quickly found out I wasn't going away.

Inside the cave, I nearly brained myself on a trap before pulling up. Of course the Akavir would have trapped the damn place, there was no way they'd just let the Imperials waltz in! With that in mind, I crept into the next chamber and paused. There was a skeleton nearby, with a slate under its hand. And it wasn't making the ogre noise I could hear.

The ogre ahead wasn't interested in coming over, so I carefully slid the slate out from under and had a look at it. Despite the incomprehensible swirls I decided were the Akavir language, it looked like instructions. I looked at the translation again.

_The slate rock that the orders have been carved upon for safety weighs me down; it is a constant reminder of the more than physical burden that I carry._

The Countess would like it so I pocketed it.

My skeleton wasn't a match for ogres, which tended to smash it even before it finished summoning. However, I had my mage's staff, which tended to lay them out long enough to slam two Firestarters and a Flare to see them off. I had quite a collection of teeth by the time I reached the far end of what was, really, a twisting tube into Pale Pass.

Pale Pass would be quite a nice place if it wasn't for the ogres. And the cold. I snuck past those I could sneak past and killed those I could not. My goal was soon in sight: the wreck of a fort, one great tree growing in the middle of its stone ring. Two more ogres fell before I could enter.

Inside the fortress I was almost at once attacked by a fairly tough skeleton waving the ruins of a slender sword, and the ruins of an intricately decorated, round shield. Undead. I should have known.

For hours I slogged through the dungeons, several times finding myself going in circles and avoiding traps that I had already avoided. I was rather pissed off by the time I penetrated to the last chamber.

A shade waited, bedecked in the memory of armour I had never seen before. His eyes, what I could see of them, appeared oddly uptilted, and he had one hand on his sword.

"_You have made a long and perilous journey, but there is no time to rest,"_ says he, _"The Army of Reman is at our doorstep, and our supplies have dwindled. We have awaited your arrival. Tell us, what news do you bring from Akavir?"_

It struck me that the restless dead I had been stalking and slaying were the shades of the long-dead Akaviri forces, still waiting all these long centuries for their instructions. I pulled out the slate. "Here are your orders, sir," says I.

The chill of the ghost's hand went straight through the slate into mine, as it took the ancient, and now very out of date, orders. _"Well done, soldier. Your mission is complete, and you have my thanks. Now we may rest. Long live the Akavir!"_ said the ghost. He turned and walked to the far wall, then through it, the slate shattering on contact.

And then the wall sank into the floor, revealing a hidden chamber with a small plinth. The ghost was nowhere to be seen, but on the plinth was a remarkable amulet. A snake, biting its tail. The Madstone, I presume.

It wasn't until 23 Frost Fall that I finally emerged back into Cyrodiil, having carefully evaded the remaining ogres and made my way back to the cave the ancient Akavir had called the Serpent's Trail. Scanning the night-draped snows, I saw no more trolls or anything else, so I made a run for the road and the Bruma Mage's Guild.

-o-o-o-o-

I woke the following morning and thought for a bit. I was definitely getting smarter with all the practice in magic; not to mention nimbler with all the sneaking and bowplay – and the odd breaking and entering didn't hurt either. As the rest of the guildies broke their fast I considered patching up my gear, then decided against it. Better to appear travel-stained and prompt than raise questions about what I'd been doing for the past two days.

"So what _were_ you doing for the past two days?" Volanaro asked a little snippily. Something to do with me crashing in his bed, so totally unconscious I couldn't be roused.

"Been seeking an Akaviri artefact in Pale Pass," says I.

"There's our taxes at work again," J'skar said sarcastically, "And how many millions _did _she pay you?"

"Twenty-five drakes," says I.

There was a short silence, then: "Is that all? – I heard she was paying scouts two _hundred_ for something or other – You'll never earn a living at that rate! – Did you give her a discount or something? – Don't you know we have a reputation to maintain in the Guild? – Didn't you show her your axe?"

"_J'Skar!"_ Jeanne yelled, and the young Khajiit shrank back into his shoes. "Sorry Ra'jirra, but twenty-five drakes is far too small. It was an advance, surely?"

"Yes," says I, "and I'll get my reward for the Madstone shortly."

"The whatstone?"

So I dig out the Madstone and hold it up, and away we go again! "The Draconian Madstone! – Good gods, man, do you know what that's worth? – That should be in the Imperial Museum! – And you fetched it for _twenty-five drakes?_" and on and on until I pulled out my mace and thwapped the table for silence.

"Once the Madstone is handed over," says I, "and when I return to the Arcane University, I will inform Arch-mage Traven of this discovery. I'm sure the Countess will be agreeable to his suggestions that the local Mage's Guild will be only too useful in examining this artefact. And the next fetcher to second-guess me or tell me to welch on the deal," and I raised my mace, "gets the Skingrad Special."

That either cowed or confused them enough to shut up and let me eat breakfast in peace.

Next stop was the castle, where the good Countess Carvain was holding court. As soon as she saw me, she rather peremptorily dismissed the two courtiers or whatever they were and approached me, demanding, "You have the Madstone?"

I just smiled and handed it over. Her eyes went wide as she closed her grip on the thing, holding it up to the light.

"I never thought it possible. I mean... I had hoped... but to actually hold it in my hands. It's more beautiful than I imagined it." She stared at it for a long while, then remembered I was there. "Congratulations. I had a feeling you were the right person for the job. And it seems I owe you a reward." She fished something out of her belt pouch, which was a blue velvet matching her dress. "This Akaviri ring was found with the messenger's diary. It awards the wearer with increased agility and resistance to harmful magic. It's known as the Ring of the Vipereye. As I said, I already have one of these, so this is your reward."

I pulled off the ring of agility I'd been wearing for so long and slipped the Ring of the Vipereye on. It fit a little snugly, but the additional wards would complement my Spelldrinker Amulet. I thanked the Countess profusely and managed to drop hints about using the skills of the Mage's Guild. I'm not sure if they took root but I tried.

-o-o-o-o-

From Bruma I headed southward, stopping at last at Wawnet Inn. I doffed my helm and entered.

"Rra'jirrra!" S'jirra cried, making my name into a cry of pleasure that still makes my knees weak to this day. Not a good thing when a pretty young she throws herself at you before you even clear the doorway. "Wherre have you been? Did you find yourr frriend? Yourr bed was so empty!"

It takes me a while to become coherent again because, well, the sensation of her face against mine, and despite a dusting of potato flour she smelt quite nice, and I was juggling a slender waist in one arm and my helm in the other.

"I... well, it took me longer to find him, um, than I thought," says I, which is half right.

"Oh, S'jirra!" Abhuki had hands on her matronly hips and an exasperated look. "Let the poor man come in and sit before he tells his tale!"

S'jirra just rubbed her face against mine before letting me go. I counted out ten drakes for a room which I _definitely_ intended using this time and prepared to land on a stool, but both Abhuki and S'jirra directed me to a nice chair in a corner instead.

"Now then," Abhuki said once I was seated, "tell us all about it."

I didn't. I simply mentioned that my friend appeared to have taken shelter in a nearby Ayleid ruin that turned out to be a necromancer lair, and exaggerated from there. To tell the truth, I found myself enjoying the experience: sitting like a lord, my audience hanging on my every word, foes and mace-blows increasing tenfold, and my cup neither running over nor dry. Which might explain why my audience increased twofold when I wound up.

"And I 'eard," I remember saying, "Tha' th' Mage'shesh Guild'sh worr-worr-shcared o' theshe corpshe-humpumpumpersh 'n' doin' all th' can t' wipe th' fetchersh out."

"Trruly?" One of Abhuki said (I think it was the top one) while both of the S'jirras gasped. "We live indeed in trrying times. S'jirrra dear," and both look at one or both of her daughters, "help ourr honourred and rrather drrunk frriend to his bed?"

I did my best to help her but not one of my four or five legs seemed to want to work.

-o-o-o-o-

The following morning I woke to the unpleasant scents of vomit and piss, which acrid smell made the ogre in my head either angrier or breed. To this day I have _never_ drunk even half as much in a night. I'm a Khajiit, not a Nord. To make things worse, I'm the Arch-Mage now, so I can't _afford _to in case something explodes. _Yes,_ even Bravil.

The door opened like the gates of hell and S'jirra entered, bearing a covered plate and a jug. "Rra'jirrra needs waterr," says she in a voice that alternately stroked and stabbed, "since so much drrink takes much out of one."

And so I carefully sat upright, trying not to let the back of my head fall apart and my brains roll out and under the bed. S'jirra was almost saintly, making sure this hungover, soiled mess of a Khajiit drank his water and ate his ham and eggs. After an hour I felt sufficiently alive to get up without the floor trying to escape, and another hour later I paid my rather large bar tab with laundering fee and left.

I swear the unicorn was sneering at me and took pains to walk as loudly as possible.

-o-o-o-o-

I arrived at the White Stallion Lodge after sundown and dismounted. "Wait here," says I to the unicorn, "we'll be heading back past Harcane Grove shortly."

The unicorn just snorted, did a neat little pirouette and almost crapped on my feet. I made a mental note to buy a proper horse. See how this snotty beast liked _that!_

Ignoring the unicorn – which I was _sure_ was still smirking at me – I went inside. Mazoga was out, which wasn't surprising, so I had time to check the chest at the foot of my bed. The _Molag Stava_ was still there. I hefted the thing, black iron and blue-white welkynd housing deadly magicks. Jarol would love to see this all right.

I sat for a while and reflected on just how _far_ and wide I had come. I certainly hadn't expected to travel the entire country to get into the Arcane University. Nor had I expected to become a knight, certainly not for just one day's work. Then again, I hadn't –

An hour later I was chuffed to find the unicorn waiting. For some reason I felt an urgency to head back to the Imperial City and I didn't know why. "Sorry," says I as I mount, "Things are coming to a head. I can feel it."

The unicorn must have agreed, as it almost immediately broke into a gallop and nearly threw me off!

We flew past beasts, past bandits, past Bravil – and close to Harcane Grove the unicorn finally slowed down to a slow walk, then stopped, ears pricked. A tiny light had appeared just ahead and off to the side of the road.

Carefully, I dismounted with as little noise as possible; bow in hand I approached the flame.

There was one figure bent over a white candle, bare back to me. It was a she, and she appeared to be trying to write something on a... a leaf? Anyway she sat up on her haunches – they were very nice haunches – and if it wasn't for her feathered hairdo giving her away I'd recognise that voice anywhere.

"_May this flame of passion burrn within your hearrt," _S'jirra sang,_  
Frrom me you will not parrt,  
With harrm to none,  
So mote it be – it is done!"_

And she held the leaf in the flame until it caught.

"Sweet Dibella," she intoned, "Let Rra'jirra declarre himself to me trruly, I mean him no harrm and can contrribute to his life of sett – _kchhttt!_"

She immediately hunched over and put her fingers in her mouth.

I immediately rose and walked over to her. She looked around sharply and went all red when she saw who I was.

"Give me your hand," says I, and she just looks at me at first, then gingerly takes her hand out of her mouth. The flesh was a little pink, and some hair was scorched; it didn't really need my casting Convalescence at close range but I did anyway.

"Back home," says I, "you'd always know who was in love, because they'd buy a little pink candle."

And she just looks at me.

"And what they'd do," I go on, "is write their name, and that of their lover, in a circle, and while the candle burned down, they'd say:

"_Our fate is sealed," _and I gently kiss her hand.

"_We are one," _S'jirra starts to smile and pull close.

"_So mote it be," _and her other hand tugs on a wing and removes my helm.

Neither of us said much after that.

And I never got around, obviously, to telling her she didn't have to strip off to do all that other rubbish either.

Maybe her improvised love spell worked after all.


	19. Ra'jirra Makes a Promise

**Chapter 18. Ra'jirra Makes Promises**

I was woken by a unicorn's nose. I wasn't pleased with that, since I would have rather been woken by S'jirra's nose, among other parts, and glared at the beast in the pre-dawn light.

When the drake dropped I could have kissed that unicorn.

"S'jirra!" I shook her awake where she lay in the cup of my body, "Wake up! It's nearly dawn!"

She squirmed momentarily, then blinked at me in confusion. "Wha–?"

"S'jirra," says I urgently, "You have to get dressed, it's nearly dawn, they'll be waking at the inn soon."

She blinked at me some more, then reality registered. "Sweet Dibella, Marra and Zenitharr!" Out she squirmed from my arms (alas) and scrambled into her clothes. "Motherr will kill me! I mean, you! I mean... oh, hells."

I reached out with the hand I wasn't pulling my greaves up with and stopped her.

"You can ride with me," says I.

Which is the reason behind S'jirra returning to the Faregyl Inn on 25 Frost Fall in style, upon a unicorn, in the arms of a warlock adorned in Ayleid armament. Having the Molag Stava on my back didn't hurt either.

We were greeted at the door by Abhuki, who gave us a rather cool look.

"And wherre," she asked quietly, "has my daughterr been?"

S'jirra tensed.

"Strrangely," she went on, "I find myself lacking not only a daughterr, but also a candle, and a quill."

S'jirra's ears were starting to redden and droop. I got the impression that the unicorn was enjoying our discomfort.

"And now she rreturrns with a warrlock she is morre than fond of," and Abhuki steps forward and plucks a twig that had become tangled in S'jirra's hairdo. She twirls the twig and gazes thoughtfully at her, then me, ears down but for a different reason.

"Motherr, I–"

"Love charrms?" and Abhuki puts a wealth of contempt in those two words. S'jirra doesn't look at her, head down and twisting her arms.

Abhuki looks at her and then looks at me and I feel three foot tall. "You _will_ be honourrable," it wasn't a question. She _knew._

And I had no choice. I didn't know if philandering would get me expelled from the Mage's Guild, or strip me of my knighthood, or both. But I was beginning to suspect that –

"Rra'jirra's name appearrs in the latest Black Horrse Courrierr," relentless as a siege, "Mayhap it appearrs again..."

"It will do," says I at last, "When the necromancer menace is no more."

S'jirra stares at me, and Abhuki's brows and ears slam down.

"Then I will return," says I before Abhuki can tear my throat out, "and I will take S'jirra as my wife."

And she just looks at me, but at least her lip isn't curled now.

"S'jirra," and I turn to her while fishing a ring out of my pocket, "I had made up my mind before now." I went to one knee – yes, just like in bad romances – took her hand and gently slid my old ring of agility on her finger.

"With this ring," says I, "I vow to marry thee, once my greater task is done." Yes, the whole 'thee' business is like a bad romance again, but at least it defused Abhuki and better still it made S'jirra cry out with joy and throw herself at me.

After all, she'd not only seen, but accepted me at my worst, and also I had a reputation to uphold. Besides my parents would kill me if they found out their son was a rake.

I rose to my feet and almost at once fell back to my knees, clutching my head. We're still working on that form of communication.

"Rra'jirra?" chorused Abhuki, S'jirra and an odd mixture of the two. "Your nose..." went on S'jirra, dabbing a finger on my honk and showing me a spot of blood.

"I've... I've been summoned, I think," says I as I carefully stand up and turn to where two-and-a-half unicorns are merging together, "And I don't want them summoning me like _that_ again."

-o-o-o-o-

"Ra'jirra." Traven looked worried. "Go to Bruma and find out why I've heard nothing from them for the past two days."

"Sir?" Despite a nice refreshing trot, I was still not quite over the summons. My nose smarted and a pair of hedgehogs were trysting in back of my head.

"Normally Jeanne writes me daily." Traven made a wry face. "Nothing of consequence usually, but I checked. The daily courier was riding as normal, and no, he hadn't received anything for me from the guildhall." His face goes hard again. "Jeanne _never_ misses a chance to write me. Get equipped and get to Bruma and find out what the hells is going on!"

It took me the rest of the day to ride up the road to Bruma. Personally I suspected that Volanaro and J'skar were playing silly buggers again by stealing Jeanne's mail before it reached the courier. It sounded like something those two would do, and wouldn't be too hard to sort out.

Better still, the crisp cool air of the Jerall Mountains might soothe my nose and cool the hedgehogs' ardour.

-o-o-o-o-

Little wisps of smoke were rising through the roof.

In a town of wooden, half-buried structures, that was bad. But I didn't know if the situation inside was under control or... what?

Inside the door was chaos and smoke. One of the guildies was slumped before a burning bookcase – Selenia Orania. A sound like a gargling cat alerted me and I dodged as a ghost launched unpleasantness my way. Then I dodged right back as a skeleton charged me. Molag Stava had me blessing those bloodthirsty sadistic Ayleids as I dropped my dear dwemer mace for the skelly's silver one.

"Watch yourself!" a woman shouted from where Jeanne's chambers were. I couldn't hear very well over the fire and through the wall. Someone was still alive!

Volanaro was on the stairs, most of his vitals smashed and frozen. _Thank you for teaching me your special,_ I said to him and risked a peek into the living quarters.

Five seconds later I barrelled out of the guildhall with a spectral warrior in pursuit. Molag Stava's fire didn't even slow the horror down – but lightning and the good offices of the Bruma watch made short work of the dread thing. Pulling myself together I headed back to the hall where a spunky young guardswoman turned another skeleton into bones, its immense battle-axe crashing to the stoop.

"All right," says she, "what's going on? What was that thing?"

"Necromancers," says I, "they've attacked the guild. And it's on fire. Someone's still alive in there."

"_Fire!_" the guard cried, "I'll rouse the watch, and the Fighter's Guild! We can't..." and away she runs.

Out came Molag Stava, the bane of the undead. Zombies don't like burning, nor do wraiths, and I stumbled through the choking smoke and out the other end. I hadn't seen J'skar, so maybe _two_ were left alive.

I clambered up the stairs and almost ran into a woman I didn't recognise. Her wearing corpse-humping gear probably explained it.

"You're _far_ too late," and I see her teeth flash, "the guest of honour has already–"

Molag Stava works quite well on necromancers too.

I walked forward into Jeanne's chambers; I could see her lifeless body; a bell was ringing outside.

Then a closet exploded.

I had Molag Stava out and aimed before I recognised the dirty blue of mage's robes wrapped around J'skar. The young Khajiit scrambled to his feet and was about to unleash a spell before he recognised me.

"They... are they gone?" His eyes were huge with sheer terror and from the smell he'd had a thoroughly understandable accident. "I was too afraid. I just couldn't move..." well, he could move now, just like a bewildered, hysterical young Khajiit. "I could hear the screaming, but I just couldn't move!"

"J'skar!" calls I and I grab him and spin him to face me. "Who did this? That woman?" Pointing behind me at the roasted smoothskin.

"No..." his mind was staggering all over the place. "He killed them all. Just... slaughtered them."

"Who did? WHO?" I almost screamed. I needed to know. I needed to know so I could kill. I needed to know so I could kill the bastard.

"I... I saw his face," screams J'skar, and I smell his bladder giving way again from the memory. "_I saw the King of Worms!_"

I think I went a little strange too, or maybe it was a billow of smoke. J'skar staggered and I propped him up.

"Hello!" Someone yelled from below, praise the Nine! "Anyone still alive?"

"YES!" yells I back, "BREAK DOWN THAT FUCKING BOOKCASE AND GET US OUT!"

-o-o-o-o-

The guildhall was a total loss. Jeanne, Selenia, Volanaro – they lay shrouded in the Chapel of Talos. The fire, once the Fighter's Guild had been extracted from their precious beds and beers, was well under control. J'skar, Primate Falvius told me, was mainly suffering from shock.

"It perhaps would be best if he was to stay here the night," said that worthy priest, "as he has had a grievous encounter with evil, and it would be best to let the gentle presence of the Divines heal his soul."

-o-o-o-o-

"What a pompous ass!" Caranya exclaims when I repeated that in the Council chambers ten hours later.

"Damn waste," Traven says, "Falvius was a damn good sorceror, then he goes and gets himself all happy-clappy. Don't think I told you he taught Volanaro about Conjuration?"

No, he hadn't. J'skar just looked down at the table at the mention of his friend, his eyes only shining because of tears. His colour, to put it nicely, was terrible. The journey back to the Arcane University had been silent and awkward, and I knew I'd find tears staining my cape.

"Anyway," Traven says, parking himself next to the young kit, "J'skar, I need you to tell me what you saw. So we know what to do to send these scum back to hell."

"I couldn't believe my eyes," J'skar said slowly, "I think the only reason I'm alive is because I was invisible... but even so, I think he saw me." _Makes sense,_ thinks I, _life-detecting magics see through illusions as well as walls._ I was smart enough to keep that thought to myself.

"We thought he was just some Altmer visiting, maybe after a spell or potion, then... He killed them, one by one." J'skar stumbled and limped through what I'd seen: the appearance of powerful shades, the chaos, the desperate attempts at defence. "Volanaro was last, I think. He was trying to run away, but he didn't make it... The King of Worms stood over him, right before he died, and he..."

J'skar looked as though the surface of the council table was a portal into Oblivion. "It – it looked like he... he – he sucked out Volanaro's soul! There was a light... and his open mouth it – it went right in his – his horrible mouth..."

There's nothing nice about watching a grown man reduced to tears from horror. Jarol was looking at J'skar with actual concern, which either meant Traven had been talking with him or the seriousness of the situation was quite clear. Caranya was listening raptly with an expression that I couldn't decipher. Then again she didn't like me, so maybe she needed one of Traven's little talks herself.

"J'skar." Traven shook the weeping Khajiit gently, or as gently as you can when wearing daedric armour. "J'skar. Did... he... say anything?"

You think humans look bad when crying? Try having fur all over your face. J'skar lifted a matted, dull example up to meet the Arch-mage's concerned gaze.

"He said something about Echo Cave... and destroying the Mages Guild." His eyes, already swimming in tears, dove away from the terrible memory. "Then he looked right at me, even though I was invisible, and... and just grinned!

"He knew I was there, he... left me alive for..." J'skar was beginning to shake again. "I – I can't – Please, don't make me go back there..."

Traven just looks at him with compassion, and then says to me, "Ra'jirra, will you please take J'skar here and make sure Polus gets him settled in?" Then to J'skar, "You'll be safe here lad, we won't be sending you back to Bruma." Then to me, "Once he's settled in, Polus has a spell for you – Wizard. Then take some days off and recuperate. I think the area around Faregyl Inn is nice at this time of year."

There _was_ a small smirk on his mush, I'm certain!

-o-o-o-o-

"I've never seen a man more pathetically grateful than J'skar for a bed and a sleeping draught," says I to Abhuki three days later. I'd arrived at the inn about midnight, after dropping thirty-odd nirnroot at Sinderion's. To say he was overjoyed was an understatement. To say I was overjoyed that all it would take was grubbing up another _forty_ of the miserable and, frankly, pungent roots to make the ultimate strength Exploration Elixir or whatever it's called was an overstatement.

Abhuki just looked at me in dismay. "So many dead... Rra'jirrra, when will this all end? Does the Legion do nothing, see nothing? Therre is talk of horrrorrs in the old Lorrikh Village, and amazons up in Cahrrcoal Cave, and Rrobberrs Glen lives up to its name again!" Where? Oh, right, the cave east of here, just before the switchback down to Bravil.

I decided that telling her about the necromancers closer by in Pot Hole Cave wouldn't help her agitation.

"Things just haven't been right since the Emperor's illness," says I sadly. Gods, that was a bad patch. Some loonies had started a riot in the Imperial City itself, claiming the heirs apparent were actually simulacra, and things had become so bad that back home the local Legion garrison had been prepared for recall to Cyrodiil.

Mercifully the Emperor had recovered, thanks to a daring young Legionnaire who'd brought a cure all the way from Morrowind, and the would-be usurpers nowadays rested in two or more pieces.

"But for now," says I, pushing some drakes over the counter, "I intend staying for a night or three. You have a room free?"

And she looks at the drakes and then looks at me. "Perrhaps," says she, eyeing me intently, "But I ask you firrst..."


	20. Ra'jirra Takes a New Title

**Chapter 19. Ra'jirra Takes a New Title**

On the morning of 28 Frost Fall at eight of the bells, we three set out to the Chapel in Bravil. I led, the long legs of the Steed meaning I had to wait for my bride and her mother to catch up every so often.

I already knew the answer to Abhuki's question. I'd known the answer ever since that morning a million years ago – hells, since that evening encounter. I'd been dead serious when I'd given S'jirra that ring as a promise of my engagement to her.

It was cowardice or cravenness that made me add the qualifier – that I'd marry only when the necromancer threat was gone. After all, the best way to kill a snake is to cut off the tail right behind the head, but this one we hadn't found the head of yet.

And will I or nil I, I'd been chosen as the knife. Constantly ending up thrown to the corpse-humpers was a mighty clue about that.

But as the question hung in the common room air like a noose, the bailiffs of honour and duty fronted up and made my choice simple.

It was better that I did the honourable thing, so our litter be born to a widow, knowing his father loved them even unborn; that my family did not become shamed should news of my raking reach them and their neighbours.

Also, the proposal was, simply, _right._ My heart sang to think of it. S'jirra and I would be happy now, not in a future that might never come thanks to some corpse-humper's dumb luck.

And so the Faregyl Inn was closed and locked – the sign on the door citing family concerns – and away we went beneath overcast skies, that swordsman Alix something-or-other standing guard.

Both Abhuki and S'jirra were clad in their Sundas best, my bride looking utterly radiant. I was reminded of something old 'Rotten' Maro had once sermonised – how the Nine judged by what was in one's heart, not by what was on one's back. S'jirra may have been wearing a simple white blouse and brown skirt, but to me they were finer than the Emperor's robes.

I myself wore red. Why I had plumbed a necromancer's lair, on a whim, without my usual clobbering clobber I myself didn't understand; however in the back of my mind something suggested the events of Bruma may have driven me slightly mad.

I just hoped I wasn't still slightly mad today.

"Hail travellers!" a pilgrim called to us from the shrine to Tiber Septim past the Inn of Ill Omen and Worse Cuisine. "Where you be bound?"

"Bravil," calls I, "I get married this day!"

By the time S'jirra and Abhuki reach us they find themselves surrounded by well-wishing pilgrims. It was all a bit much, and I seemed to have a lumpy throat, and so we finally extract our southbound selves from the northbound pilgrims and continue on.

And we run into a preoccupied Khajiit woman coming in the other direction. "Dro'Naharahe," says she in a posh accent, "just getting my air, clearing my head before... heading back." And she jerks her head Bravil-ward. Judging from the bags under her eyes and the flat grey tint to her fur, she needed it.

"We're going that way," says I, "what's the road like?"

"If you hurry, you'll hit the switchback down to the... county gates, before the bandits wake up," says she. "Me, I might wait for them to put me..." and she shakes her head and groans. "Sorry."

And away she goes, shoulders hunched like she had a great load on her back. I would later learn that Dro'Naharahe was steward to Count Terentius, and that risking her neck every day was the only thing that kept her sane.

Let's be blunt. While Bravil will probably always be the jakes of Cyrodiil, at least Zul gro-Radagash has made attempts to clean the place up. Pretty two-fisted attempts, but sometimes desperate measures are needed.

And so the road bent east. I deliberately slowed my pace to keep in range of my bride-to-be and my imminent mother-in-law.

"_Wolf!"_

I saw the movement after the screams, off to the left, drew the Bow of Jolts I'd brought along with me, and took aim, backpedalling full speed. The wolf staggered as the arrow delivered pain, then charged for me again.

Muzzily, I remembered I had soul gems in my pack, flopping against the red silk I wore; I racked my brains and tore the animal's soul energy away in burning ice.

S'jirra and Abhuki rose from where they'd hidden behind a bush and approached the cold yet smoking animal, where I was already busy with my knife preparing to skin it.

"Hail the brrave herro," Abhuki says drily, "Trruly this is a blessed day forr a marriage. Now, S'jirrra, you take those legs and I will take these..."

Skinning and butchering game is a lot easier with help, and while the meat didn't survive the noonday meal, it kept us going as we approached the switchback that dropped down to the lowlands of County Bravil.

The first bandit I saw mooching about, I raised a hand and gestured to the women; they got the point and sought concealment again. Despite being better armoured and armed with a battered mace, the scofflaw didn't really see me until my arrow shocked him into attention.

What?

After that, another jolting arrow, followed by a spell of killing, sent the Redguard crashing to the ground. While the ladies amused themselves looting the corpse, I advanced. I saw movement stage left – some fool waving a claymore around. I sent a jolt his way and he nearly dropped the thing.

Almost immediately I heard a snarl and instinctively ducked out of the way of a low-flying axe wielded by a Khajiit charging from stage right. Backpedalling frantically, I nocked and fired another arrow at the axeman while trying to think – and think fast!

We weren't dressed for beating up bandits, but we didn't have a choice; we weren't dressed for creeping through the forest undergrowth either. I enrobed myself in a shielding before flinging another arrow into the scowling bandit, skewering the swine in the sweetbreads to judge by his scream.

I invoked the killing spell again; again, I experienced a wave of fatigue – the bandit sank lifeless to the ground. But the other bandit was still racing for me with that dirty great claymore held high.

I was relieved that the same tactics worked on him too.

"My herro!" S'jirra purred, eyes aglow, as she and Abhuki approached the newly-deads. She looked at me, then pointed and cried out.

There was _another_ bandit, and this Dunmer should have stuck to selling umbrellas instead of attempting to skewer Wizards with arrows.

As it was, her third arrow got me in the left shin. I snarled and loosed one of my own. Dunmer may be fireproof, but they ground the lightning like ordinary folks. The same tactics I'd used on her three friends did a nice number on her as well, and she went to the ground.

Our Champion of Cyrodiil might huff and snort, but when you're without armour, running away and sniping from a distance are perfectly acceptable tactics. Especially when you're en route to your own wedding or some other function that would be ruined by you turning up dead.

"What a fine dowrry!" S'jirra exclaimed, puffing slightly under the weight of some leather cuirasses and the weapons of the bandits, and rhapsodised about how much the loot would go for once they got to Bravil and what "we" could buy with the money.

I'll give you, the reader, one guess who got to exercise their Alteration knowledge on the rest of the way!

As it was, we did our shopping, discussed after-match functions, and finally got to the Chapel by three bells in the afternoon, and spoke to the Primate, an elderly Breton hight Chana Mona.

"A wedding?" Her lined face creased into a smile. "One moment, my children, let me gather my sisters." And away she swished, while I took the chance to genuflect at the altar and ask a simple question.

_Am I doing the right thing?_

I wasn't certain, but to judge by the healing magics that caressed me like warm sunbeams, I was outvoted eleven and more to one.

But Chana Mona had returned with three other women in tow. One was a Nord, Olava the Fair, and she seemed to shine with a distant, cool light, like sun on the snows on the very top of the Jeralls. She didn't do much as I recall, but I vaguely noted she moved away to speak at one point with someone I didn't see.

Another was Marz, who bestowed blessing magicks on us. I think she also stopped me from fainting on a regular basis.

And there was a Dunmer with the finest speaking voice I've ever heard. She delivered, off the top of her head, an unbelievably lyrical sermon on the subject of marriage, something to do with making different mistakes, and a swirl of words that gave me the impression of a storm of flowers just before a great precipice.

I'd be more detailed but I was a bit preoccupied at the time with not either passing out again or screaming.

I remember a ring being taken off my finger; I remember putting a ring onto S'jirra's finger; I remember her hand placing a ring back on my finger.

I remember Primate Mona's voice smoothly blazing a trail through the vows that my own voice tripped and stumbled along.

I remember S'jirra's eyes positively glowing as she spoke _her_ vows, as immense as the star-filled sky.

I remember the world coming back into coherence as the smiling Primate spoke, saying, "And with these vows, and with these rings, and with all the blessings of the Nine Divines, I pronounce you husband and wife–"

And S'jirra gave a cry that shook the roof and flung herself into my arms and it took me about five days to realise that if my wife was kissing me, who on earth was making all that hooting and hollering?

S'jirra got curious herself, and we both looked around to see the entire Mage's Guild had turned up sometime during the proceedings!

Ayarie stepped forward. "I came in earlier," says she between grins, "and imagine my surprise when I saw _you_ before the altar, and our living saint here explaining you were getting married!"

"She asked me not to tell you," Olava said turning the colour of sunset on the Jeralls.

"And she asked me to keep silence," Abhuki was grinning mischievously.

"Which I think hass been broken," Kud-Ei attempts to frown at her guild, who just beam right back at her. "May I offer the newlywedss the hosspitality of the Mage'ss Guild?"

And we look at each other, and decide, why not?

I remember a swirl of well-wishers, someone producing a lute and another a recorder, and was it Ita who used a barrel-lid for a drum? The guild was decidedly lighter by several bottles of wine the following morning, and Henantier of all people knocked himself out cooking up a storm, and he and Carandial and I near wore our legs out since all the ladies insisted on taking the floor with us before S'jirra gave me a look – one that Kud-Ei noticed.

"Pleasse," says she, "usse my room at the top of the sstairss tonight," and she looks at Henantier. Ohohoho! – that was the general consensus of not just me, but apparently most of the other guildies who'd overheard her – and of S'jirra, who promised me wickedness in the gleam in her eyes.

I'd wondered why there were two beds in Henantier's house.

"Ladiess," Kud-Ei spoke with firmness, "the hour iss getting late, and we _are_ all tired after the eventss of thiss happy day. Wizard Ra'jirra and his family will sstay here tonight, and–"

"You'll be with Henantier again right?" Ayarie and her chin were a bit over the limit.

Kud-Ei just gave her a look, then laughed. "I guess you all already know then," says she ruefully, "but don't you dare try to drag us to the altar!"

The idea was considered uproarious, and the laughter of the guildmates lifted S'jirra and me – and another bottle of Surilie Brothers' finest – up the stairs to our room for the night.

I closed the door behind us and looked at my wife and kissed her long and hard. As I did, I thought I heard something outside.

As I was busy kissing my wife and she was giving me the tongue, I lifted a hand and cast Watchfulness. Yep – there were at three silhouettes crouched outside the door, and two more downstairs – one was probably Abhuki.

I pulled the key out and locked the door, then said loudly, "No giggling!" as S'jirra hauled me towards the bed in the corner with one hand and attempted to tear my clothes off with the other.

"Who carres if they do?" she breathed in my ear as we – well, you know.

And if you don't, ask your mum.


	21. Ra'jirra Enjoys His Honeymoon

**Chapter 20. Ra'jirra Enjoys His Honeymoon**

It was about half an hour past eleven bells before S'jirra and I finally extracted ourselves from the nuptial bed. Something to do with Kud-Ei barging in without knocking and pretending to be surprised we were still there. Of _course_ she'd have a second key!

"Oh!" says she, "I thought you had arissen already and collected your wedding giftss."

"Gifts?" asks I rather confusedly.

"Giftss," Kud-Ei repeats patiently, "Your mother hass already arissen five hourss previoussly, and wass ssaying ssomething about doing ssome sshopping before returning to the inn." She dawdles at a bookshelf apparently looking for a volume. "I am informed that sshe went to the Archer'ss Paradox, and to that fellow who runss A Warlock'ss Luck." She turns and starts rummaging through a chest, then adds, "You may like to invesstigate after lunch, which iss being sserved."

Now we can take a hint as well as the next person, and come to think of it we _were_ getting peckish, so once Kud-Ei left on went the clothes and we went down to the dining area. The talk was _very_ small, and I couldn't help noticing that even at this late hour a sizeable cross-section of the guildies looked like they could do with some rest.

So anyway we let Kud-Ei have her bedroom back and out we go. "I know where A Warlock's Luck is," says I, "But where's the Archer's Paradox?"

"Daenlin's shop? He is overr the Quiverring Brridge, my love, acrross frrom the lodge." And my S'jirra – my _wife_ – looks at me with a wicked grin. "The Lonely Suitorr. Not that my Rra'jirrra carres?"

Well, I certainly didn't, and across we go.

The Archer's Paradox was a tidy unadorned store that smelled of hide and glue, probably from fletcher-work, and was currently occupied by an unshaven Bosmer huntsman whose chin looked like it could skin a carcass on its own.

"The Archer's Paradox," he declared in a surprisingly deep voice, making a careless gesture, "Because a perfect arrow flies forever, and that's impossible. I'm Daenlin, and I have no perfect arrows."

"Er..." says I slowly, "I'm Ra'jirra, and how could an arrow fly forever? What if you had a perfect bow?"

And Daenlin's eyes widen to normal size! "A fellow philosopher!" cries he, "Of course, an arrow by itself is nothing without the bow, and – oh!" He blinks and remembers what Abhuki told him. "Congratulations to you and your lovely wife."

I reckon you could have heard S'jirra's purring back at Faregyl.

"I take it Kud-Ei was her usual subtle self," Daenlin adds with a wink, and grins even broader as we colour. "Anyhow, Abhuki wants me to give you these. She said," and he looks puzzled, "you would need them in the course of your task."

'These' were a silver bow and a quiver of twenty-five silver arrows. My mother-in-law was smart; undead tended to hang around the corpse-jockeys if not vice versa.

"Abhuki is very wise," says I, "I'd love to explain but it's Mage's Guild stuff and all hush-hush."

Daenlin looks sceptical at that. "They're going after that Order of the Putrid Hand mob? About damn time. Come back when it's finished up, and we can have a talk – hunting stories, why nothing can move, good times!"

And I don't know what he's on about so we make our farewells and head off.

"Take a chance on the–" Ungarion started his spiel as we entered, "–Ra'jirra! I've got some gifts for you. Er..."

"What's the erring for?" asks I.

"Well," and the Altmer goes pink, "the gifts are for _you,_ Abhuki never said anything about... oh heck."

"Motherr is giving me a grreaterr gift," S'jirra says calmly looking at me, "Ensurring my Rra'jirrra rreturrns safe and securre."

She had a arm around my waist, and I felt it shift downward and squeeze slightly. Wifely privilege I guess.

"Well then," Ungarion says, going pinker, "let's to learning, shall we?"

Abhuki had purchased a pair of conjuration spells. One summoned a scamp, and another a ghost. "She said something about assistance in a fight," Ungarion said, and frowned. "Is there something we should be concerned about?"

"I'm doing work for the Mage's Guild," says I, which is about right.

Ungarion stiffens. "Then gods help you," says he shortly, "I've run into rogue magi before."

-o-o-o-o-

S'jirra and I left just as the latest Black Horse Courier arrived on the steps of Silverhome On the Water. She picked up a copy before I could stop her and started reading it as we exited out of Bravil.

Need I tell you what was top of the bill?

S'jirra's steps slowed, then stopped completely behind me. I turned to see her staring in disbelief at the bloody rag. "What is this?" gasps she.

So I take the paper and look at it. "What?" says I innocently, "you mean this sale on men's clothing at Divine Elegance?"

Truth be told, most of my clobber was salvaged or rewards. Actually _buying_ an outfit instead of leaving it to chance sounded like a good idea to me. But right now S'jirra had taken a swing and I ducked back, seeing a flash of claws. Talk about whirlwind romance!

"No games!" S'jirra's eyes were blazing and her hair was on end, setting her ornaments shivering in the afternoon sun. "What is happening herre? The Brruma Mage's Guild is sacked, the town nearly on firre, and you behold the King of Worrms! Arre you trrying to get yourrself killed?"

I actually looked at the lead story and swore. Sure as shit, the idiot scribe had mixed me and J'skar together. _Wonderful._

"Not me," says I, "I got there after the _spurius_ had already gone. It was _J'skar _saw his face." I looked steadily at my distraught wife. "If I had seen Mannimarco face to face," says I grimly, "I would be dead. Or mad."

And she just looks at me like I already am. Mad, I mean.

"Look, not even Traven knew what was happening, okay? All we knew was there'd been nothing from them for days. Me, I thought J'skar and Volanaro were playing tricks on Jeanne again, swiping her mail like they did her _Manual of Spellcraft._"

And her ears come back to half-mast and she's calming down. "They did what?"

"Well, _they_ didn't swipe it, they made _me_ swipe it. Y'see..." and away I go telling her about J'skar's invisibility prank and all the other pranks they'd claimed to have done. She was thoroughly distracted for a while, but then, "But what happens now about Mannimarrco?"

"Not my problem," says I, "Arch-Mage Traven will probably find him, pay a visit and kick his arse into the deepest pit in Oblivion." And I shrug. "I wouldn't try in a million years."

"Of courrse," says S'jirra relaxing, "Only the Arrch-Mage could take on that monsterr."

"Speaking of monsters," says I, "I'll have to pop into the Black Horse offices and set the record straight..."

And we talked of nothings as we returned to Faregyl.

-o-o-o-o-

On arrival, S'jirra and Abhuki went upstairs – to prepare the marriage bed, no doubt – and I was approached by Alix.

"While the ladies play decorators," says he, "let's go get dinner. Which do you prefer – venison or pork?"

And I have a think; I've eaten plenty of venison and drunk it in potions too, more times than I care to admit. "Pork," says I.

"Right then!" says he, as we go back outside, "I'll be chasing bloody deer all over Nenyond Twyll, but if you go around Mingo Cave –" and he points roughly north-east, "– I've seen boar sign around there."

So out comes the bow and off I go stalking the wily boar.

There was a mystical imp hanging about, which hacked me off no end, but inside Mingo's heavily abused gate there was a fair-sized herd of wild pig. Despite their best interests, I bested them with spell and bow. This was the third time I'd come out victorious without armour – my spellcraft was improving!

It was getting late, so I went back to the inn. S'jirra and Abhuki fell on my haul with cries of delight and admiration; Alix on the other hand just sighed and said, "Maybe I should get married." Apparently wolves in the area had the local deer spooked. Not surprising. It was winter after all.

-o-o-o-o-

The next day was Turdas, and S'jirra left our bed early. Finding this inconvenient for obvious reasons, I followed her outside past a sharp vomit smell to where she was fussing over her potato patch.

"Oh my poorr little darrlings, did you miss S'jirrra?" she crooned, doing gardener-type things – hey, alchemy doesn't always involve _growing_ the damn plants. "Two whole days I've forrsaken you, oh my poorr babies, motherr has some nice waterr..."

It was all very maternal in a creepy sort of way. Fortunately she can, in fact, tell the difference between tubers and toddlers. Tubers don't create as much havoc for a start.

"S'jirra?" and she starts and turns to me. "Was there anything you wanted to do today?"

"Do?" and she frowns at me, then, "Well, I was just going to make anotherr batch of brread, but now I think about it..." and she rises and wraps her arm around my waist, "perrhaps S'jirrra makes something else?"

That something else turned out to be a basket with one of her exquisite potato loaves, some cheese and pork, and a couple of bottles of Tamika vintage, which we took over the hill past Mingo Cave towards the Niben River.

As we started down the hill, the forest began to change for the worse. The trees were heavy and oppressive, the leaves unpleasantly discoloured like dried blood. The ground became blackened as well, and then there was the smell – lavender plants versus something malevolent. S'jirra tugged on my sleeve and we skirted the area's edge.

"Lorrikh Village," she explained, as the remains of buildings appeared downslope, shrinking away from a well that looked unnervingly intact in the middle of what must have been the village square. I opened my mouth to ask what happened, but she went on, "The rruins werre herre when motherr and I came. Only fools and rrogues come herre, and dead men at night!"

Then she gasped at something behind us, and the next thing I know I turn invisible!

And I spin to see something like a bluish will-o-wisp floating away, giggling.

I go for my bow and that breaks the spell. S'jirra breathes a sigh of relief.

"That was forrtunate," says she, "when I was a kit, that crreature currsed me badly," she shudders. "I did not rreturn for a yearr."

We continued past the remains of the village to the river's edge and after toasting some mudcrabs that wouldn't leave us alone, we spread our repast on a flat spot that stuck out into the river.

It has a nice view of the Imperial Isle, although the bridge gets in the way. S'jirra and I ate and drank, talked about what life in the Arcane University is like, and fooled around a bit before we put our clothes back on, packed up and headed back to the inn.

"The Norrd who rruns the Inn of Ill Omen says he surrvived what destrroyed Lorrikh," S'jirra said as we left the blighted area behind. "Perrhaps you should ask him." And she scowls. "And learrn his _current _load of hairrballs."

According to my wife, the fellow spins a good tale, but obviously can't leave it alone and keeps 'improving' it – improving that would be better used on his food.

S'jirra's description of her one dreadful meal there made me laugh and brought us to the crest of the hill. We began to head down to the road, and then S'jirra spoke.

"Rra'jirrra, therre is something I must tell you–"

"You're expecting?"

And she looks at me in surprise. "You know?"

"I could smell the puke this morning," I explain. Apparently women bearing children spew every morning. They don't like it, but it happens anyway, and the sooner someone finds a cure for it there's probably a sainthood waiting for them.

I took S'jirra's hands. "I am going to be there," says I, "and I will hold our baby, and be a father. That's more important to me than..."

She didn't let me finish and I didn't have to.

I wasn't going to get myself killed if I could avoid it. Whatever Traven threw me into, I was going to do my damnedest to either beat or retreat from it. And then I was going to spend the rest of my life being a dutiful husband and father – and not worrying about any more Mannimarcos, thank you very much.

And I didn't. Instead I found myself worrying about Oblivion gates, getting assorted nutty magi to pull their heads in, and longing to bang assorted councillor heads together on a regular basis, but fate plays pranks like that.


	22. Ra'jirra Seeks Councillors

**Chapter 21: Ra'jirra Seeks Council(lors)**

The following day I took my leave and returned to my waterfront shack to pick up a few things. As I intended spending as much time as possible in the presence and arms of my wife, it made sense that I should have my working clothes and equipment close at hand.

The discussion had been somewhat vigorous; Abhuki making me swear not to pong the inn out with potions, S'jirra begging me to get someone else to fetch my stuff, and me trying to allay their fears and promising I'd only be a day or two.

So what happens? I arrive, I get to packing, I emerge from my storage chest to find Traven had let himself in and was leaning against the door, munching on a pear. "Don't trust apples," says he by way of greeting.

"Arch-Mage," says I respectfully, "how may I be of service?"

Not at all, I hoped.

"You can find Councillors Jarol and Caranya."

_Bugger._

-o-o-o-o-

"You will not pass, fleshbag!" the dremora snarled as I emerged from behind the fallen ebon golem. There's a difference between atronachs and golems that wasn't really important at the time, and frankly both are much nastier than corpse-jockeys and will take your head off given the chance.

And I just scowled. I'd managed to dash off a quick note to S'jirra explaining what was going on before riding down to the Drunken Dragon Inn in the bitterly cold rain. I'd located the almost buried Fort Teleman through the aforementioned bitterly cold and increasingly fierce rain. I'd fended off some patrolling undead that were waiting outside in the damn rain. And, once inside, I'd had to fight my way through about a zillion corpse-humpers, daedra, and elemental summonses, just to get to this point. And all I wanted to do was find exactly _one_ Irlav Jarol and get the Bloodworm Helm off him.

"Markynhaz of the Kyn," says I as formally as I can, remembering what Volanaro told me, "I am here on behalf of the Mage's Guild –"

"Well spoken for a lying mortal, like the –" the daedra broke off and squinted at me through the gloom. "Wait a minute, haven't we met before?"

And Volanaro's memory gives me the elbow. "Markynhaz Gadaz'tor of the... Or'rozht Kyn?"

"That is I," and the dremora frowns. "Say, does the name Volanaro mean any–"

"It does," says I, "He summoned you about a week ago, teaching me how." I pause then add bitterly, "Before these damn corpse-humpers sacked the place and killed him."

"Volanaro's dead?" And the dremora stares at me in disbelief.

"Killed by the King of Worms," says I with less bile and more anger, "And Irlav Jarol was supposed to be here hiding some artefact the necromancers wanted."

Gadaz'tor wasn't listening. "That explains it," mutters he, "the mortal was dying when he summoned me, he told me to let no man near him. He must have meant no necro_man_cer..."

So Irlav Jarol was dead. That was, I'm sorry to say, expected.

"Which I'm not," says I, "The Arch-Mage himself ordered me to retrieve the artefact." And I scowl. "Besides, this batch is all dead, and I'm to retrieve the artefact and return it to Traven – so we can stick it to Mannimarco."

"But this damnable geas won't let me... Ah! Wait here." And he goes down the tunnel he came charging out of, and about two minutes later comes back clutching a helm that appeared to be made out of solid bone – more precisely, out of the skull of something that would have been ten times worse with flesh on it.

"One very magical helm," says he extending it, "for Roger of the Mage's Guild."

"The Bloodworm Helm, I presume," says I, "and my name is Ra'jirra," and I pause for effect, "Wizard of the Imperial Mage's Guild, Knight of the White Stallion, and now husband to S'jirra, who is probably worried sick about me."

"Bloodworm Helm, eh?" says Gadaz'tor, looking at it. "It's mighty powerful, although I don't like the enchantments it has... hey, wait a minute, what did you say your... your..."

"Wife..."

"Wife's name was?"

"S'jirra."

"And you're _Ra_'jirra, right?" I nod and the dremora looks confused. "You two aren't related are you?"

He was only the first to ask that.

"Well, in a sense we are," I couldn't resist. "We're both Khajiiti."

And thus it was that I made a dremora laugh.

"That's perfect!" says he finally, "Volanaro couldn't have cracked better..." and then he blinks. "The geas is lifting," says he, "My bondage is nearly done. But before I go, about my mortal friend..."

"He will be avenged." And I meant it.

"I'll hold you to that," were the last words of Markynhaz Gadaz'tor to me before the geas released him back to Oblivion.

-o-o-o-o-

"And that's what happened, sir," says I in the horribly empty council chamber to a horribly distraught Arch-Mage Traven.

"Even from the grave our guildmates of Bruma help us all," whispers he as he turns the Bloodworm Helm in his hands, "do you know what this is?"

"No," is my intelligent response.

"It was found in Morrowind," says he quietly, "in a Dunmer tomb, on a madman's body. It massively amplifies the conjuring abilities of the wearer. In fact... it is said that this helm was possessed by Mannimarco himself."

I say nothing.

"It also allowed the wearer to... drain the very essence of their victims." And he smiles almost. "The sort of artefact the King of Worms would like, eh?"

Yep, I could agree with that.

"Look, Ra'jirra," and now he taps the ring on my finger, "I know you've been wed barely a matter of days, and I nearly sent you to your death. If you want to wait, it's no problem..."

"Mannimarco's a threat to my wife," says I slowly, "and he's killed good people. We need to send him a message." I remembered Mucianus, probably still lurching about under Nenyond Twyll.

"We've been on the back bloody foot since these _spurii_ showed their hand. So," and I stand up, "if you'll excuse me I have a Caranya to find, and I need to let my wife know I'm all right."

But Traven just sits there and gives me a grim look.

"Remember Kalthar."

-o-o-o-o-

Not many people know this, but on the farm knowing a bit of smithcraft helps when you need a running repair on the plough, or sharpening the tools, and it's too small to make the trip to the smith and there's no tinker around. At the same time I have to admit my skills are still very much limited, and I still cannot mend enchanted gear to save my life.

You see, enchanted clobber and arms aren't just things with spells on. In effect, the enchantment _fuses_ with the item, affecting its composition. And that means the novice armorer will find things going strange when they work – tongs falling _through_ the item, heat not affecting plates, your skin turning luminous green and smelling. (All right, maybe not that last one.) The mark of an apprentice armorer is being able to figure out _how_ to mend the armour _around_ the enchantment, instead of trying to force _through it._

The reason I mention all that is because after I left an unhappy Arch-Mage, I first headed off to Skingrad. There I picked up this information from Agnete the Pickled, while I waited, wrapped in a grotty loaner robe not even beggars would touch. Agnete had got some paint at some stage and written STOLEN FROM HAMMER AND TONGS all over it.

The other reason I mention all that is because there's a Galerion Prize for the first person to figure out why enchanted equipment resists repair, but not damage. As of putting this to paper, it hasn't been won yet.

After my armour was all fixed up and I'd given her robe back, along with the night's drinking funds, I studied my map. Caranya had taken herself to Fort Ontus, which my map suggested was northish of bloody Brotch Camp (site of the ogre encounter) and even more northish of Shardrock farm. The great Ra'jirra brain suggested heading to Shardrock and then northward ho.

There was nobody around as I dismounted between the farmhouse and sheep pen, and I didn't twig to the unnatural silence until a bloody great black bear damn near took my head off!

Yep. This adventure was off to a great start. Barely left the farm and I'm being attacked by the wildlife. Suffice it to say I finally taught the beast not to meddle in the affairs of wizards, to a round of applause from the local farmer who'd emerged from wherever he'd been.

"Well done stranger," says he in a definite Breton tone, "That's one less to worry about. Bloody beasts."

"Something I should know about?" asks I.

"It's _obvious,_ isn't it?" says he angrily, "Bloody West Weald bears coming after my sheep. There's no way I can fight those monsters off on my own, and I don't have that many sheep to spare." Fair enough – I counted about six milling about in the pen, unable to decide if they would be frightened by the bear's corpse, or eager for breakfast.

"If you could thin the population a bit, they would probably get the bloody hint and leave me alone." As he said this, he reached into the bear's mouth with a knife and sawed out one of its rather impressive fangs. "I'll tell you what," says he cheerfully, "Kill another five of the things, bring me their fangs as proof, and I'll reward you well!" Then he looks at me and the cheer vanishes. "Please, you're my only hope."

"I'll see what I can do," says I, "I'm Ra'jirra of the Mage's Guild. You're...?"

"Thorley Athelred," says he, "just a shepherd. But I promise you, you will be rewarded."

"Fine," says I as I turn north again, "And I'll cull your bears for you."

As I stepped beyond the edge of the pen my culling kicked off with a hiss (me) and a roar (bear number two.)

Bear number three never even laid a paw on me. And these were big buggers too, animals that would have made any of the elementals or atronachs of Fort Teleman shit themselves. I continued north; sorry Thorley, but I had another pressing obligation.

And so I climbed the ridge, and skirted Brotch – another set of bandits had set up camp there, although two of the sods looked like they'd been dancing with ogres at some stage. Which was fine by me, so I continued climbing to a back road bridge, which led me right to Ontus.

-o-o-o-o-

"What are you doing here?" What a relief! It was a fellow mage.

"Traven sent me," says I, "I'm seeking Caranya."

"Oh – yes, you'd best talk to her, she's in the Understreets area, I think."

Wherever that was. I passed numerous other magi, all of whom looked uncomfortable as I passed, suspending conversations, putting things under their robes. I guessed that it was something to do with the fear of attacking necromancers.

I did find the Understreets, and finally Caranya, in a chamber adorned with banners I'd seen before. Necromancer's banners.

"Caranya?" calls I, "you okay?"

"Who–?" and she stares at me. "Ra'jirra? Well, well. This _is _quite a surprise. I thought you were Traven's lapdog, doing whatever he said, and yet here you are," and she smiles at me!

What in the name of the Nine?

"Good that you've finally seen the light. The cause will benefit from your assistance." Her smile was giving me the creeps.

"Cause?" I didn't have the patience for this. "Listen lady, I was told to get you and the amulet back to Traven right now."

"What?" Would you believe she gaped at me like an idiot? "You're here to – to _take it back _to _Traven?_"

She actually approached me and patted my arm. "Oh, my dear," still smiling as though I was just a kit, "I'm afraid you're in over your head."

I understood what Traven had said. "You're back with the corpse-humpers, eh?" says I angrily, "We'll see what my fellow magi have to..."

She just laughed, still smiling like a skull, eyes glittering like broken glass. "Oh yes," says she, "When _he_ has the amulet, _his_ power will be increased, and Traven will be helpless to stand in his way. You, I'm afraid, won't be standing at all."

There was a resounding crash as gates penned me in. I cursed my idiocy. Caranya _wasn't _the only Kalthar in the fort!

"I _promise _I'll make this quick. I'd like to have you mostly intact, so Mannimarco can suck the marrow from your bones," and that set off the fight.

Now I wasn't as good as Caranya, but I had armour and the Molag Stava, and I decided the best thing was to just zap the turncoat bitch with my best spells. Unfortunately her summoned ghost and her fellow traitors complicated things.

Towards the end I forsook subtlety, and in a fit of rage simply charged straight towards where she, more than a little battered, was cringing in a corner, trying to muster the magicka for a restorative.

I remember seeing her eyes widen, how she attempted to duck past me on the left. Her scream as I used the white stallion to slam her against the wall. Then I stood on her foot – hard – to stop her getting away as I used her face for a training dummy.

I swung for poor Jeanne.

I swung for Mucianus.

I swung for Volanaro.

I swung for Selena Orania. For Eletta. Zahrasha. Jarol. I think I also devoted a few swings to the Count of Skingrad's reputation. Then I stopped since, frankly, Caranya didn't have enough head to swing at anymore.

There was a distant retching sound, and I looked across the chamber at the grate. Apparently even corpse-humpers have limits, and for a moment I locked eyes with one of Caranya's dupes, before he squealed and fled.

Later, I too would flee – shoulder-slamming aside corpse-humpers as I flew to the good clean air of the Colovian Highlands. I didn't even stop to wonder why the unicorn was waiting outside; I didn't even guide him; he just flew like the night wind towards the Imperial Isle, into the morning of 4 Sun's Dusk.

-o-o-o-o-

"You should have killed them all," Traven said bitterly as he dangled the rather soiled Necromancer's Amulet from his fingers. Even with my rudimentary knowledge of enchantments I could tell that the damn trinket – a lump of jade engraved with a skull on a tarnished chain – demanded tradeoffs for its power.

"I didn't have the might to do so, sir," says I, "just fighting Caranya took it out of me."

"Well you bloody well should have!" Traven almost yelled, then rubbed his face. "I'll just have to tip off that n'wah Lex and see _if_ he can send one or two Legionnaires to get themselves killed..."

I looked at Traven, sitting next to me, and it hit me that while he might run the Guild and clank about in full daedric, he was still old. And now everything was going to Oblivion in a handcart. I'd seen that when I returned the Bloodworm Helm, which felt like a million years ago, and –

"Oh, I got a message," says he suddenly, "from your wife." And he forces a grin. "Simply put, I'm to send you straight home as soon as your tasks are complete." He extracts a paper from somewhere and passes it over. "On pain of no more potato bread."

And I look at S'jirra's diffident hand, and Traven was pretty much accurate. "I'd best get going then," says I shifting in my seat.

"Before you do," Traven taps my hand again, "skills. You're still not as good as you need to be. Talk to Abhuki, she can suggest people to talk to." And he winks. "If your wife will let you visit them. Oh," all business again, "one more thing." I cover my ears as he bellows for good old Raminus.

Raminus popped into existence promptly. "You called, Arch-Mage?"

"Ra'jirra here's laid down his life – twice – for the guild this week," says Traven, "So he's to be kicked upstairs." And then he grins thinly. "And he's to bring his skills up to his new level too."

"That's not entirely metaphor, by the way," Raminus says to me, "As a Master-Wizard, you're given a seat on the Council of Mages, so expect to spend a lot of time on long boring speeches."

"Raminus..."

"My apologies, Arch-Mage. Ra'jirra, your travels have taught you much, and that's important for the future of the guild. Anyway," and he winks at me, "congratulations. You've risen as far as anyone can. Why, there's only one person who outranks you now!"

And Traven just nods and adds, "Well, let's fill out the damn paperwork and make this official. And hurry Polus, Ra'jirra's wife's waiting..."


	23. Ra'jirra Goes Home

**Chapter 22: Something In the Water**

Things were about to come to a head. I could feel it. My repeated near-death experiences chasing artefacts left me in no doubt that I needed to jack up my ideas and abilities to be ready.

That night, I sat at the table brewing potion after potion. Being an imaginative chap, I was especially interested in cooking up health restoratives for me and poisons for them. One of my favourites was a mix of rice, vampire dust, wisp stalks and stinkhorn I dubbed _Shut Up and Die._

After a restless sleep, I pulled on the merchanting togs and took a cross-section of weapons and things to market. The result was a fine weight of drakes in my pocket – which a little praxography promptly removed. My nightmares had all been about spectral warriors and I felt I needed more powerful lightning magicks. With any luck _Discharge_ would help.

Later in the afternoon and three clubbed wolves later, I entered Fort Nikel and listened to the sounds of combat. Curious, I crept forward and enjoyed the sight of several swimming bandits and, to judge by their better armour, marauders.

Subsequently the bandits were killed and the marauders turned their attentions to _me._ I wasn't so happy about that since I'd idiotically left my potions at home. Traven would have had a fit. To this day, I'm sure that only dumb luck kept me alive.

That night saw me, dressed in simple clothing, repeatedly riding to and from the fort, aglow with Starlight, laden with loot. Even with feathering all this lugging stuff around was making me stronger, and the spellplay was helping my understanding of twisting the Aurbis to my will.

What? I'm allowed some purple prose on occasion.

I was on a high from my successes, but I could imagine Traven: _You weren't prepared. I don't need fools on the Council. Maybe we should re-examine your credentials? _No, Traven wasn't one to suffer the over-promoted. Maybe he was telling the truth about being more interested in what I was willing to do for the Guild and Empire as opposed to what I sought to get from it. I mulled it over as I sat fixing dings in front of the fire in the wee hours before packing up and crashing for the night.

-o-o-o-o-

The following morning I donned the merchanting togs again and loaded up for another assault on the massed pursestrings of the Market District.

"Pardon, Master Wizard, sir," says a nervous voice just as I emerge from The Best Defence. I'd flogged the gear in exchange for some pointers on using heavy equipment, thinking it would come in useful.

"Yes, what is –" I broke off when I recognised Traven's face grinning at me atop a set of magician's whites.

"I don't wear it all the time you know," says he, obviously referring to the daedric I usually see him in. "Been busy?"

I'm about to stutter an explanation but he gives me no chance, grabbing my elbow and steering me to the Merchant's Inn. "I've got a problem," says he after parking us at a corner table.

"What's her name?" is my intelligent response.

"Abhuki," says he, "I need to ask her a favour."

And I'm thinking what you're thinking, but his face kiboshed that.

"Abhuki was a promising student," says he, "but events... well, let's just say I've been told she's still willing to teach Alteration for a fee."

Abhuki was a mage? I never knew that. I tried to imagine her as a young she in green, but couldn't.

"Give her this letter," says he, "I know she's your mother-in-law, so I'd like you to see what she thinks, and what her response is."

"Did she leave the guild or something?"

"I'd rather not say. It might affect her response. But," and he looks at me seriously, "she was a promising Apprentice before she... Well, I'd better be off. I've a meeting at the prison. There's a chap there I want to have a little chat with."

"Already?" The 'chap' had to be a necromancer. Why else would Traven be visiting?

"Already." Traven's smirk was telling. "You have to be careful where you hold secret meetings. Apparently the resident amazons disapproved – violently – or so I'm told."

"Dzonot cave eh?"

Evidently not. "I'll tip off the guard to that. Anyway, go home, visit your wife, get some practice in, then come back when Abhuki's made a decision." A serving girl arrived with a small carafe of Tamika's and two glasses. "Ah!" Traven poured for us. "Before we part, I'd like to propose a toast. To Kud-Ei and Henantier, may their lives together be happy and full."

It took me some time to get my brain around that. I finally managed to raise my glass and chorus, "To Kud-Ei and Henantier," and drink their health. Evidently the Bravil guild's open secret was no more!

"And then there's the matter of young Ardaline," says Traven, "Apparently she and Varon, ah, broke up."

"Why am I not surprised," says I. Traven just laughs and empties the carafe into our glasses.

"Well, a toast to her, and may she find happiness and love elsewhere." Raise, clink and drink. Gods know she needs it.

"Well, I think we both need some good news these days," Traven stood up, "But now it's back to work. Count Hassildor tells me he's got a promising lead as well... poor sod."

And we part our ways: I heading for the Three Brothers, Traven making a beeline for the outer gate and the grim tower beyond.

I finished what business I had in the Imperial City, idly wondering how Traven's 'little chat' was going. With a heavy burden of belongings, I arrived back home at Faregyl in the twilight of 5 Sun's Dusk.

"It's coming to a head, I think," says I that night in our bed, "pretty soon it'll all be over and we can _really_ be husband and wife."

S'jirra just smiled and snuggled closer.

-o-o-o-o-

The following day my wife was doing important things with her potato patch and I was alone with Abhuki, who was doing important things with a broom. I went back to our room and fetched her mail.

"Abhuki..." says I uncertainly as I come down.

"Yes, oh son-in-law?" asks she, straightening up from her sweeping.

"Traven asked me to give you..." I was feeling thrown for a loop the same way I had when Traven had mentioned it. I silently handed her the letter and watched as she read it, her ears and brows shooting up in amazement.

"As a memberr of the Brruma guild?" and she shakes her head. "No, Rra'jirrra, please tell Trraven that I cannot. Farregyl is my home, and I would rratherr not have to trravel forr days to visit my grrandson."

And I just take a seat. "I never knew you were a mage," says I.

"It was a long time ago," says she softly sitting down beside me, "when I was young and seeing opporrtunity like yourrself. Even so, Gasparr the Grrasperr was still lurrking in the Prraxogrraphical Centrre, although..." and she looks at me sideways, "yourr telling suggests he has pulled both his heads in these days."

The idea of Gaspar Stegine being even slimier than today makes me shudder. Her smirk doesn't help.

"The Univerrsity was wonderrful at firrst, but soon it palled. The lecturrerrs werre often obsessed with otherr matterrs, and I will be honest: Forr magickal learrning, seek the guildhalls."

That jibed with what I'd seen. The Arcane University seemed to be more like a Home for Unworldly Magi than a seat of learning.

"So, one day I went to the City forr potion ingrredients, and this fine he catches my eye." Her face goes softer, as though she is ageing backwards. "His name was Ja'zaddha."

Her eyes went luminous as though seeing him again, and there was a purr building in her throat, making her accent thicker. (Obviously Quill-Weave and I already gave it a scrub. The other interesting thing was how she began to slip into the third person, like a Cathay-Raht.)

"Ja'zaddha... we spoke as he walked me back to the Univerrsity about magics for explorring, and I explained about the usefulness of Alterration. Shielding like extrra arrmour. Walking on the waterrs, orr brreathing them while yourr foes flounderr and drrown. Opening locks and lightening loads... And Ja'zaddha listens.

And too soon arre we at the Univerrsity gates! And I rrememberr how Ja'zaddha... such a fine, courrteous he, bid me farrewell and..."

And she trails off with a moony look on her face and twirls the broom absently.

"Afterr months, I was sent to Anvil. But Abhuki by herrself is too vulnerrable a trravellerr, and therre is little waterr for poorr Abhuki to hide in the middle of should bandits orr bearrs decide to..." and she shudders. "And poorr Abuki detests the school of Destrruction so. Why arre people so obsessed with killing and burrning?"

Now her expression became angry. "What turned you against it?"

"Therre was an _idiot. _He wanted a spell of... firre shielding, I think. But such is the domain of the Destrruction school. And does poor, gentle Abhuki know these things? No, but she knows good shielding spells. But this idiot is so upset that he scrreams abuse, and starrts strriking poorr helpless Abhuki, and what can I do?"

Idiot, all right. There's an incredibly persistent idea that keeps surfacing now and then: that every mage knows every spell from every school and can use them all. It's an annoying misconception that no matter what I try, I can't seem to shift. I bet that Ottus woman's behind it.

"I rraise my hands to prrotect myself, and next thing I know is a daggerr in my arrm." Her voice breaks off. "If it werre not forr good Ja'zaddha rreturrning frrom the hunt... I would not be herre.

"And I ask herrself: Is this the life forr poorr Abhuki? To offerr serrvice to ingrrates and fools? I said No, and Ja'zaddha agrreed."

"Hold on," says I, "what was Ja'zaddha doing there?"

"Did I not say?" Abhuki looks puzzled. "I needed an escort."

Oh.

"Anyway," says she briskly, "Afterr we burried the fool, Ja'zaddha and I came to Anvil, and therre I worrked underr Carrahil." And she shrugs. She shrugs a library's worth of indifferent days.

"Ourr courrting lasted a full yearr," she gives me a look. "Then I rrecall, Carrahil came into the rroom where we werre talking," and she gives me another look, "and Carrahil says, 'Forr the love of the Nine, the Chapel is rright next doorr! Just do it alrready!'" And she grins. Evidently they did!

"And so Ja'zaddha and I trravelled for a time, but an adventurrerr's life was not forr me, norr ourr child. So dear Ja'zaddha's steps turrned this way, wherre this inn stood empty. Therre were... unpleasanttrries... with the Brravil authorrities... until good Drro'Naharrahe stepped in."

And she trails off again, gazing at the chair in the corner. Ja'zaddha's chair, I realised.

"What... happened to him?" Fair question right? I mean, I'd never seen the man around.

"Bearr." Her eye went dull, her fur went flat and her ears sank.

"If it was not forr Istrrius and Jantus Brrolus, vengeance would have been lost." We both looked up to where S'jirra was standing in the entrance. "Fatherr died two months beforre I was borrn."

"Alix has been a godssend," adds she, "but nobody can rreplace fatherr."

There's a sniffle, and I see Abhuki surreptiously wiping her eyes, then her nose. The silence began to scream.

"Well then." My voice sounded lumpy. "Your grandchild is going to see his father, and that's flat, no matter what all the corpse-humpers in the world might decide."

And the two women look at me. I just look at Ja'zaddha's chair. A chair that I intended to, and still do, sit in with my children at my knee.

"Is that so?" Abhuki is looking at me. "S'jirrra, I must borrrow your husband. I have matterrs to discuss."

-o-o-o-o-

S'jirra wasn't pleased to be left tending the inn, but Abhuki was as adamant about that as she was leading me up to the spring-fed pool outside Charcoal Cave. Not that we got close enough to alert the creatures outside it; Abhuki invoked a spell and walked out onto the water furthest away from the waterfall.

"Know you this spell?"

"No," is my intelligent and truthful response. I don't know any water walking spells. "Just Buoyancy."

"Waterr brreathing and featherring," says she in a clinical tone, "they arre rrelated of courrse." She walks back onto land. "How arre they rrelated?"

I wrack the great Ra'jirra brain. It's not just water, it's – "They affect your body," says I, "and how it responds to the world around it."

Abhuki just looks at me hard as she heads back toward Faregyl. "Why?"

"Because... if water breathing affected the _water_ and not me... there'd be a lot of dead fish."

Well I thought it was a good answer.

"What about Ondusi's Unhinging?" I look blank. "Spells that open locks, Rra'jirrra. Do those affect you and not the worrld?"

Damn. I hadn't thought of those. Minor Latch Crack works at a distance. "The world."

"Why?"

"I don't know," is my second intelligent and truthful response of the day.

"How does the arrrow strike its tarrget?"

What? "I... draw the bow and... well... release," is my scrabbling response. I was starting to sweat.

"Prrecisely," says she, and we walked in silence for a while.

"Alterration affects you, and only you," says she at last, "It changes how yourr body accepts the pull of the grround. It crreates a sheath about you to hold back the waterrs. It swaddles you in powerr to soften the blow. So answerr me this: wherre does the arrrow fit in?"

And we walk on until the light blinds me.

"The arrow is an extension of me," says I excitedly, "Like a... a long-reaching claw. When I cast, um, Latch Crack, I'm pushing an extension of – of myself into the lock – and repelling all the pins!"

"Now you understand," says she and I feel proud.

"Betterr," and I feel deflated.

The snorting of horses reached our ears and we picked up the pace back to the inn. We had customers.


	24. Goosey Jossip

**Chapter 23: Goosey Jossip**

There were three horses parked up outside the inn and we paused outside the door. Abhuki had got into the habit of assessing what was going on inside before entering, apparently.

Fortunately the patrons were behaving themselves and a lightly floured S'jirra was happily loading a large basket with fragrant loaves. "No tasting," says she to me, "these arre only half-baked."

Sod.

"Glathiel!" Abhuki smiles at the seated Bosmer whose nose is on the level with the counter and whose hair rises a foot above it. "So good to see you again. And how is Salmo?"

"Busy," says he, "And he'll be looking forward to finishing these up. Honestly," and he looks sly at my wife, "can't you put him out of his misery and give him the recipe?"

"And let poor S'jirrra's secrret out?" My wife just laughs and shakes her head. "And will grreedy Salmo parrt with his rrecipe for his sweetrrolls? I think we know the answerr to both those questions."

"What news anyway?" I was eyeing the sweetroll basket.

"Well, I'm just been into Bravil. You know Varon Vamori? The poet?"

"Didn't he and Ardaline break up?"

"It wasn't so much a break-up as a cataclysm, or so I heard. I made the mistake of talking to him over dinner last night, and he's composed an... um... about it:"

And the Bosmer stands up and assumes a dramatic pose.

"It'll live on in my nightmares," and away he goes:

_Ohhhhhh_

_It was the Third of Sun's Dusk in Third Era Four-Three-Three,  
And a humble lad did pay court to the lovely Ardaline.  
"My love! O fairest alchemist! Would you choose to marry me?"  
But her lowered brows and clenching fists proved this was not to be._

"Oh for the love of the Gods," my face sinks into my palm.

"_You tom-fool of an ashskin!" fair Ardaline did rage,  
"Did you not play a part in the loss of my staff of mage?  
And thrust me into trouble dire that could have last an age?  
I hope we understand each other and read from the same page."_

"_O Ardaline!" did cry the lad, "I know I hurt you hard,  
But let me try to make amends, and work to earn your pard  
-on,  
For I can think of none but you, and your pain is shared by this bard."  
"Be off with you!" the lady cried, "before on you I call the guard."_

I could feel my eye twitching. No, make that convulsing. Glathiel noticed and stopped. "I think you've suffered enough. I flogged some alchemy stuff at the guildhall this morning, and there were these pieces of broken glass and smelly stains everywhere."

"Which is why I'm here," says a familiar voice, and I haul my eyes off the sweetrolls far enough to spot a rattled Ayalie. "Last I saw of Ardaline, she was scrubbing the floors and getting a tongue-lashing from Kud-Ei. Oh! Did you hear she and Henantier finally tied the knot?"

"Yeah, someone told me about it in the Imperial City," says I. "How long have those two been an item?"

"Long as a piece of string," fair enough.

"I also heard," I couldn't resist, "that the Arch-Mage was seen at the Imperial prison. I think we've found a way to get one over the corpse-humpers."

The Altmer shuddered. "I've heard stories about Traven's interrogation techniques. But if it means dealing to the necromancers... is it true? They're saying Mannimarco's returned?"

"We're assuming he has. The Bruma guild was bowled by more than just a pack of morons with summoned ghosties and ghoulies. There were spectral warriors in there as well, and that takes more than mortal conjuration." I looked around grimly. "If any of you run across what look like ghostly warriors freezing the very air about them, hit the swine with shock magicks – they're so cold fire just makes them angry. If you can't – run like Molag Bal's in love with you."

"Maybe that explains it," Glathiel says suddenly, "I met a Black Horseman on the road. Apparently the Count of Skingrad shipped a prisoner off to the Big Jug a few days ago – under heavy guard."

"Big Jug?"

"Ah – I'm told that it's, um, thieves' term for the Imperial City Prison. They say 'in jug' if you get jailed, you see. But the King of Worms?"

"We don't know if it's true! Could be some smart fart using the name, but we're assuming not. Which means, once Traven pays a visit," and I smile evilly, "they'll wish they were never born."

"_If_ there's enough of them left to wish with," Ayalie says also grinning evilly.

"Well. If that's the opinion of two members of the Mage's Guild," says Glathiel, "then it must be true."

And I have a thought. "Hey, is Glarthir still acting strange?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I've heard he's been heading off to the chapel every night around midnight, but he goes around the back instead of going in. Maybe that's where Sheogorath talks to him."

Yep. Glarthir was crazy. I suddenly realised he must have been doing this for months, waiting for me. Well, he could hang out behind the chapel for the rest of his life for all I cared. I had bigger fish to fry.

"What's happening in Kvatch?"

"I think it's plague," says Glathiel, "it's the only explanation that makes sense. I had to continue to the Gottshaw Inn to find a bed. While I was there, I met a man who tells me that Altmer wizards in the Summerset Isles are leading some sort of trade boycott of magical things." He shrugs. "I can't remember what of, probably imported potions and such."

"Sometimes my kinfolk shame me," Ayalie groans. "Heard anything about these rangers out of Valenwood?"

"Heard? I've seen them! They were fighting a group of heavily armoured warriors southwest of Skingrad, in an Ayleid ruin. I saw the warriors first, and as soon as the rangers popped up, it was all on!"

"As long as they stay that side of Skingrad they're fine with me," growls I. "Did you talk with those rangers?"

Glathiel grimaces. "I hailed one. All he said was, 'This is not for you.' As he had an arrow on me, I, ah, took him at his word."

Wise fellow.

"It feels like the carrrion crrows arre cirrcling," S'jirra says suddenly. "What is going wrrong with the worrld?"

So I go over and embrace her. She sighs and relaxes into me and I can't help thinking that even dusted with potato flour she smells nice.

"I'll keep you safe," I promised, and I promise still, and woe betide the silly bugger who tries to make me break it.

-o-o-o-o-

"I wonderr if Trraven has asked Jantus Brrolus," Abhuki wondered over dinner.

"Brolus? As in the ones who finished off that –?" Sometimes it's good to stop while you're ahead.

"The same," Abhuki nodded, "She was a fine illusionist. Herr parralysis spells stopped that bearr in its trracks, and herr night-eye was almost as good as Ahnissi's gift."

I had a think. I knew I desperately needed to get my Illusion schooling up to speed, and maybe Mrs Brolus would be amenable. Not only that, but I could test the waters before nominating her to Traven.

"Where would they be now though?" Adventurers tend to move around a lot.

"I rrememberr they talked of a quiet life in the norrth, wherre things arre coolerr." And she frowns. "Strrange, I would think Imperrials arre used to the warrmth herre, but they said it was getting too hot!"

"You arre not leaving again?" cries S'jirra.

"Not until tomorrow," says I, "but I promise you, my love: I won't go playing with necromancers."

I subsequently ducked a low-flying baked potato.

-o-o-o-o-

The following morning, I rousted the unicorn from Harcane Grove and set off northward in the company of a Legionnaire and a brace of pilgrims who were awed by the figure I cut in burgundy and purple, riding a creature out of myth. Eventually I arrived in Bruma and handed the reins to an ostler at Wild Eye stables.

"You wait here," says I to the unicorn, "Where there's plenty of feed and a warm stall for you."

The unicorn just looked disdainful.

"You're that fellow from the Mage's Guild, aren't you?" said a guardsman on gate duty, "the one who raised the alarm about the guild burning."

"I am," says I, looking at the Mage's Guild. It was clearly untouched since that dreadful night, timbers blackened and scorched. "Hasn't anything been done to repair it?"

"Not a damned thing. Countess Carvain won't lift a finger until she knows whoever destroyed the guild is dealt with, because if we did, what if they came back? And what if they decided the Countess was to blame?"

Oh for the love of... wonderful. No more Bruma guild until you finish your Mannimarco. Damn it.

"Anyway, I wanted to see Jantus Brolus. Do you know –"

"The illusionist? Her and Istrius live around the other side of the chapel. Right next to Bradon's house." And he shakes his head. "Bradon Lirrian, a vampire. Who would've known?"

It's hard to believe, but I got lost in the stews behind the chapel. If it wasn't for a hard-faced Nord I'd have been wandering in circles until I got waylaid.

"Should've brought my bow or something," I grouse, "could've shot arrows in houses as I went along as trail markers."

"You an archer then?" and her face softens a bit. "Didn't think spell-slingers used weapons."

"Well this one does," says I, "and it's saved my life countless times. Besides, bows don't light up and give you away."

That lightened her up a bit more, and after a jingle of the purse she led me to the butts and taught me a couple of tricks. Ten septims and forty drakes later she led me to the Brolus household. They were out. Sod.

I wandered into Olav's Tap and Tack, where I saw a balding Imperial man peering doubtfully at what smelled like undercooked wolf meat with a side of baked potato. "Summat _wrong _wi' yer meal?" That must be Olav scowling down at him. "Mebbe I should go get t' Emp'ror's chef?"

"Just thought it was a bit pink that's all," says he a bit quickly, "but it's just juicy."

Olav just grunted. "Iffn yer got any ot'er concerns," says he, "keep'm t' yerself." And away he goes to annoy another customer.

"Charming fellow," says I as I approach the man, "did he teach Maulhand how to cook?"

"What?" and he peers at me. "He's usually better," he adds quickly, "but recently he's been in a state after Bradon was put down. I can't get over it, having a vampire for a neighbour!"

"Neighbour?" says I, "you must be Istrius Brolus." and I sit down and offer my hand. "Ra'jirra, husband to S'jirra – you might know her mother, Abhuki."

"Abuhki of Faregyl Inn?" Istrius looks at me surprised and absently chews on a chunk of wolf. "I haven't seen her in years. And I do remember little S'jirra – so she's a married woman now, eh?"

"Yep – I tell you, it was a whirlwind romance!" Putting it mildly.

He just chuckles and slices off another piece of meat. "She always was the impetuous one. Did I tell you she kept saying how she was going to run away with us? And this from a wee kitten only five!"

And we have a good laugh at that. It certainly explains where our son got it from.

"Look," says he, "you should come have dinner with us tonight. Jantus will love to meet you and learn what's become of little S'jirra." And he looks down at his surprisingly empty plate. "Well, no rest for the wicked." And off he goes.

"Good riddance to him," and I realise Olav's at my side, "grumbling about good plain food... What'll it be stranger?"

"You knew Bradon Lirrian then?" asks I.

"I did," says Olav grimly, "and he had us all completely fooled. And if someone like Bradon could fool me like that – who the hells else am I wrong about?"

"Well, you can't suspect everybody," says I getting up, "it ruins the appetite."

Rule number one of merchanting, _any_ merchanting: Never keep your temper in the same pocket as your purse. You, dear reader, are welcome.

-o-o-o-o-

"Much better than Olav's," says I around a belly full of aromatic wolf chunks, mixed with chopped carrots and onions and served on a bed of rice. Jantus Brolus was a fine cook and needed no illusions to improve her food.

Istrius had been waiting outside his house for me, which only made my getting lost more humiliating. All I'd had to do was cut across the front of the chapel and I'd be almost there!

I checked into the guildhall, but all that was there was detritus, smoke and ash. Nobody had done a damn thing, like the guard had said. It was a disgrace, both to the guild and to the cravenness of Countess Carvain.

However, the Broluses weren't interested in that; they were instead interested in S'jirra, and for that matter myself, and what I'd been doing. The story of how I'd met S'jirra in the first place raised laughs, and then recounting the third time we met, even while heavily censored, raised eyebrows.

"Moves a bit fast doesn't she?" Jantus says at last, "But then she always had _very_ definite ideas about things."

"Let's just say she didn't leave me much choice," says I, carefully being vague about the she in question. "Anyway, Abhuki got a letter from the Mage's Guild yesterday. Would you believe they wanted her to rejoin and man the guild up here?"

"Abhuki?" Both of them stared at me. "Well, that explains it," Istrius says more to his wife than me, "that shielding spell she laid on me isn't the sort of thing most folks go paying for. Or could cast for that matter."

Jantus nods. "And casting on others is more difficult. Oh yes, my husband said you wanted to speak to me about the Illusionary arts?"

"That I do," says I, "but before we do, just want to know: would you be interested in –"

"You're recruiting for the guild?" and Jantus frowns at me.

"Well, no," says I, "I'm just asking if you'd be interested. If not, I won't even raise your name."

And she relaxes. "I'm just good with that school. Mostly basic stuff. But it's always useful to go over the basics now and again." And she rubs forefinger and thumb together. I understand the gesture at once.

"So you'd consider it?" And I reach for my purse and study the contents.

"And end up with a bunch of old airheads bossing me around? Besides, we're retired, our own people and we like it that way."

Well, I'd tried. "Fine then," says I, starting to count out drakes, "I won't tell Traven. But about the Illusionary arts..."

"What spells do you know?"

"Starlight," says I, "I learned it ages ago... sort of by accident."

And I invoke it at her prompting. The dim interior of their simple home was picked out in slightly greenish light. "Is everything lit up?" asks she, shading her eyes as she looks at me.

_Huh?_ Thinks I, and "Yes," says I.

"Wrong." says she with a smug little smile, "the only light in here is from the fireplace and the candles."

"There's no light in the world, you're saying," says I slowly, "that means it's not my body, it's my _mind_ that's being affected. But if that's so... is everything lit up to you?"

"My eyes can deceive me," says she, "I don't trust them."

"Illusion... affects minds, then," says I. Istrius rises from his chair and collects up the plates.

"There may be no extra light here," says he, "but _I'm _going to pretend there is since it's useful."

"So it's affecting not just _my_ mind," says I, "it's affecting everyone else's around me." I frown. "You know that feeling when you're being watched? Is that like my Starlight here?"

"If it is," Jantus replied, "that means...?"

"Minds are connected," says I suddenly. It made sense. The tales of mind-reading Telepath people. The queer coincidence when you think of someone and then said someone walks through your door. The way you can feel a threatening presence, eyes boring into your back. "Illusion is about altering your idea of reality – but it sort of overflows into other people's realities as well!"

"You're getting the general idea," Jantus nods just as Starlight goes out. "What we perceive as reality is a trick of the mind. But since most everyone sees the same thing, like this table here _as_ a table, it takes a sizable effort of will to change what people see. Or _don't_ see. I take it you're wishing to vanish in a pinch?"

"I think I might need to real soon."

"Well... I can't really teach you much more than that. On the other hand, I know of some books that touch on the mysteries of Illusion. Ever read volume three of _The Wolf Queen?_"

I couldn't remember. "Oh well. Another is the first book of the _Palla_ series; I used to have it but then we hit lean times and I had to sell it. Book four of _The Mystery of Talara_ is supposed to have some pointers in it too – that's what Hil the Tall told me."

"Hil the Who?"

"Hil the Tall – he's part of the Cheydinhal chapel crowd. He knows a few things about illusions too."

I nod and push a stack of coins Jantus' way. "If I can cobble up an excuse to visit him, I will," says I, "but that's a big if. S'jirra doesn't like me going away."

Both the Broluses chuckled at that. "Like we said!" cries Istrius, "she's got very definite ideas about how things should be!"

And on that note we parted and went our ways.

-o-o-o-o-

The following morning I emerged from the Jerrall View Inn and left for Wild Eye Stables, where a slightly bitten stable-lad was emerging from the stalls.

"You're takin' the unicorn away then!" says he, "I thought it was a wonder at first, but now all I can think is good riddance."

"He's pining for his grove," says I, "and we're off that way."

A jubilant whinny came from the unicorn's direction.

-o-o-o-o-

"So that's what's happening in Bruma," says I, "everyone's all agog over this Lirrian person being a vampire, and nothing's been done to clean up the guildhall. Oh, and Istrius and Jantus were delighted to hear of your marriage," I finish, looking at my wife seated next to me, one hand around my waist and the other tackling dinner.

"So they did rretirre therre," says she softly, "Maybe one day Rra'jirra will take his family visiting?"

I had a vision of the interior of the Brolus house with S'jirra and Jantus talking, me and Istrius chinwagging, and a little bundle of joy haring all over the place. It was actually quite an appealing thought – until J'dargo was two.

As it was, S'jirra's effective godparents had to make do with letters for another three or so years until the boy learned to control his assorted parts. You know: arms, legs, mouth, speed, sphincters, violent impulses, stuff like that.

But that's neither here nor there, and right now's a good time to skip over several days of nothing very much. They were pleasant, peaceful days.

And I would need them. Oh, gods, I would need them.


	25. Ra'jirra Attends a Council Meeting

**Chapter 24: Ra'jirra Attends a Council Meeting**

About a week later I was summoned to a Council meeting. There I met the other newly selected members, before Traven plunged us into one of the least pleasant tasks I had ever had to do for him.

You think your lord has too much on his plate? Traven's was overflowing. There were issues involving who was going to bore and/or teach the students about what for the next semester; issues involving disciplinary matters, in which I remained mute; and a whole raft of other stuff I would come to know all too well.

There's some folks who find all this fiddlework relaxing after an adventure, but I don't. At least you know where you are in some cave or ruin and problems are straightforward.

Anyway, let me introduce my fellow councillors. There's Raminus of course, not to happy but at least he has a head instead of a cabbage on his shoulders.

The exploding doublet encases – just – one Heraclitus Vonen, a grape and Imperial cross. He's well known for his work in something-or-other, and better known for exploding.

The lady in unflattering scarlet is Antonia Otranto, and she looks almost as pale as a vampire. She's a sorcerer of some note, and the centre of all sorts of alarming rumours.

"Right then," Traven kicked off, "we've got a lot of little things to get rid of before we get on to the corpse-humpers, so let's knock 'em on the head first. Any objections?"

Nope.

"Right: Skingrad guild. There's been a number of complaints, especially from the ladies, regarding bedding arrangements. Apparently they lack a spare bed, so visitors have to either go somewhere else or share."

"And now Erthor's back," says I, "that means there's no room at the guild. I'm sure the local innkeeps will give thanks, but it's not a good look."

"So?" Vonen looked down a bulbous bit at me. Two holes suggested it was a nose or home to fruit flies.

"So," retorts I, "it makes a mockery of the Guild's pledge to provide a free bed in _all_ the guildhalls. You might like to re-read the charter sometime?"

And he begins to sputter and steam a bit, before Antonia looks down _her _nose at him. "That is indeed listed as a benefit of membership, _Master_ Vonen," says she, sending bugs made of ice down my spine. "We can hardly allow guildmates reason to criticise their guild, now can we?"

The coming explosion was averted with a sound like sat-on bog beacon. (When using bog beacon, always cut off the stem at ground level to use as a handle. Make a cut on the top of the cap, holding the stem so it's pointing away from your face. Aim it into the pestle – and always work outside or with open windows. Caps should be slightly soft to the touch – if it's hard it's overripe and will stink out your pack when it bursts. Need I tell you one of the most popular pranks around?)

"Well, buy another bed," is my intelligent suggestion. "Where's the nearest furniture maker?"

"Kvatch," is Heraclitus' irritable response, "_but_ as you know, they're isolated for plague."

"Well, what about shipping one in from here or Chorrol or something?"

"Do you have _any_ idea what the costs of _cartage_ are? We'd be lucky if the damn thing wasn't used for firewood by bandits! Why, my last shipment of Tam– ah, alchemical supplies cost almost double what it was six months ago!"

He was going to go on, but Traven just looked at him until he shut up. "Maybe do less with more?" says he mildly, but he made an elbow-bending gesture we all understood.

Heraclitus just subsided with another squashed-bog-beacon noise.

"Ra'jirra, are you moving that we purchase another bed for the Skingrad guildhall?" asks Traven.

"Yes sir," says I.

"Who will second that?"

"I will," says Antonia.

And the motion was carried. Female guildies would now sleep easier and cheaper if they were visiting Skingrad now – well, when the bed was finished and set up anyway.

"Now then, the Bruma guildhall," Traven rolled along like a siege engine, "how are we for potential staff?"

And he looks at me.

"I presented your letter to Abhuki," says I to him, "but she says no. Oh – I also followed up a lead to Jantus Brolus, she's a dab hand in Illusion magicks, but she said the last thing she needed was 'a bunch of old airheads bossing me around'."

Traven snorted with amusement, Vonen sat on bog beacon again, and Antonia laughed, head back and revealing mercifully ordinary teeth.

And so we spent an hour imagining who could be sent to Bruma once Countess Carvain would let us set up shop again. "It's all bloody academic until Mannimarco is dealt with," Traven growled at some point, "but it's always good to have a plan."

-o-o-o-o-

"What the bloody hell do all those scholars _do_ all day anyway?" I burst out at one point.

Instant silence. "What do you mean?" Traven asks.

"Right. A couple times in the past I've heard the apprentices grousing about endless lectures on doomstones. In fact, some have said they learned more at the other guildhalls than here. Whenever the scholars talk to each other, I swear it's all 'I was right' or 'You were right' but never anything concrete!"

And Traven looks at me with a faint smile on his face. "There's an old saying. 'Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.'"

"But why are we subjecting apprentices to those useless bastards?"

Traven is still smiling faintly.

I've learned why, by the way. Those that can't teach those that can't. Those that can get posted to the guildhalls. The only problem is that this results, generally, in generations of new magi without any real hands-on experience or common sense, just endless theory. Some of whom end up dead, or turning into Ancotar, or going bad, or, sometimes, turning out all right since they took the time and had the curiosity and intelligence to educate themselves.

But that's too scatter-shot for my liking. Once the new curriculum is completed, well, the screams will probably be heard clear to Mournhold.

-o-o-o-o-

All through this Traven had gradually started to sport a grin like the cat that ate the songbird – you could almost see a cloud of feathers surrounding him.

"Finally," he's smiling evilly, "we get round to our number one problem. I've been chatting with a few people, and Count Hassildor's provided some useful information as well."

I suspected Traven's 'chats' had involved more red-hot pokers than tea and tiny cakes. Actually, I hoped so. Everyone else seemed to agree with me.

"I take it we've got the drop on them, Arch-Mage?" Vonus asks.

"Definitely. They've been rather busy making black soul gems, in fact one or two got rather caught up in their work. So... we asked them why."

I had the vivid image of Traven asking some hapless corpse-humper: "Now, one poker or two?" But I kept that to myself.

"They've been working towards making a unique black soul gem, hiding out in Silorn."

"The Ayleid ruin south of Skingrad?" I butted in. "I've been there months ago, but it was sealed up. I take it I'm to retrieve it?"

"You're quick, Master Wizard," says Traven, "but you shouldn't have to risk your neck this time. A contingent of battlemages has been sent to the site. I would like you to oversee their actions on my behalf." And he grimaces. "Don't worry, these chaps are more skilled than the idiots we sent to Nenyond Twyll. Besides, we know now how tenacious the bastards are in a fight. But your job is to get that gem. Understand?"

I understand.

"Right. There's something else. A little bird tells me that the head of operations is one Falcar."

My ears went flat. Vonus growled, and I spotted Otranto flexing her fingers like claws out the corner of my eye. Word of Falcar's treachery had evidently got around.

"I know. If you want to kill him, fine. _After_ you get that gem. Because whatever that gem's for –" and he gets in my face – "Us having it will spike Mannimarco's wheel hard."

"I'll get my gear then," says I, "and be off."


	26. The Silorn Operation

**Chapter 25: The Silorn Operation**

I wasn't a pretty sight when Traven finally got out of bed on Loredas – 10 Sun's Dusk, to be accurate. I'd ridden hard from Silorn, my armour was still dinged and dented, my greaves were shattered, and to be brutally honest, so was I.

"Well? What happened at Silorn?" asks he.

"It went tits-up from the start," says I disgustedly.

-o-o-o-o-

"Traven sent you?" Thalfin was not pleased. "We're still going to be outnumbered, I'm afraid. Follow me. I'll show you."

So while the other two battlemagi waited, Thalfin led me towards the entrance to Silorn. Unfortunately, as he rounded a corner, he nearly ran into a corpse-humper taking a crap. The guy managed to let out a yell before Thalfin and I recovered from our surprise and silenced him.

"_Damn_ it!" he cried as the battle got underway, "Falcar's getting away! Stop him!"

Sure enough, I saw a familiar Altmer charge up the steps and disappear down into the bowels of the ruin. It was up to me, apparently, and in I went!

There's not much to report, except that some of the corpse-humpers and their little spectral friends are still there, no doubt. Unfortunately the bastards tended to clump together in little groups of four or more, making careful sniping next to impossible. At one point I saw what must have been Falcar dash across a bridge, before gates crashed shut. So, naturally, I ended up having to take the scenic route through the damn place to open them again.

On the other hand, I had carefully selected as many shock-inflicting weapons as I could tote, and mixed up several shock damage potions, and kept the raging atronach as close to the front of my mind as I could. The result was several very surprised and soon very dead necromancers and, a little later than I liked, dead spectral warriors and wolves.

I like shock damage. Shock is nice. Done to other people.

When I finally reached Falcar, the treacherous cunt had his fan club with him. By this time, all of his spectral friends had been lured away and dealt to – while almost dealing to _me_ – and for some time I paused, looking over the Bow of Jolts, waiting for the chance to drop one of the swine without alerting them all.

Eventually I gave up and just skewered the Keeper of the Dead in the group.

This tactic was then followed up by charging in like a Nord, waving a Mace of Jolts and guess who I ran into!

At first Falcar was happy to just hang back and shout encouragement, but as his mates weren't up to the task, he pulled out his own weapon and said something about getting a job done properly. I didn't give a damn and just kept laying into him and anything else in range with my mace hand and chugging health potions with the other. Honestly, Traven would have had a fit if he'd seen it.

So I didn't mention it.

-o-o-o-o-

"So the murdering bastard's been dealt with," says he at last, "good. So did you get that gem of theirs?"

I didn't reply, I just extracted the huge blackened misshapen gemstone from my pack and handed it over. The damnable thing looked like several soul gems had somehow been melted together in the shape of a turd.

"Dedicated to the last," Traven breathes, touching the horrible thing carefully, "I cannot thank you enough for getting the bloody thing. I have need of it immediately." And he looks grim. "We have much to speak of, and very little time. If I'm right, a new task awaits you, and... it is by far the most important you have been entrusted with."

"Task?" asks I.

"Ra'jirra..." Traven says, still looking grim, "Look at you. You're not ready, and I need to make sure my fears are justified. But if I _am_ correct... it will be the last task I ever assign you."

Then he shakes himself and wrinkles his nose.

"But before that, for all the gods' sakes get yourself patched up! Those greaves are one thread away from being indecent. And go jump in the lake or something. You stink!"

I began to laugh a little hysterically at that.

"And get some sleep as well!" Traven wasn't as amused as I was. "I'll summon you when we're ready. Now _move!_"


	27. Ra'jirra Rests and Goes Home

**Chapter 26: Ra'jirra Rests and Goes Home**

The next coherent thought I remember having after that was Rohssan shaking my shoulder and calling me to wake up.

"What?" was pretty much as intelligent a response as I could make.

"You were having a nightmare," says she, and I notice a pair of Bosmer women, one with unnaturally red hair, the other remarkably short, staring at me like I'd grown an extra head. "Should've got some sleep before you came here." And she sniffs. "Not to mention a bath!"

The two start giggling at that and I can feel myself blush.

"I don't know what you've been doing in this armour," says Rohssan as she returns to her forge, "and after that little performance, I don't _want_ to know. Try to stay awake and not frighten the other customers, okay?"

And I just pull the loaner robe around me a little tighter and try not to doze off again as Rohssan resumes her smithcraft and the Bosmeri resume their discussion about bows, poison and clothes.

I must have been dozing because when it hit me I _know_ my eyes popped open.

_The last task I ever assign you._

There was something wrong with that statement. Did Traven mean it would be the last task concerning Mannimarco? If so, that meant the polished turd I'd left with Traven was somehow crucial to the plans of the King of Worms. Or did he mean that after this final job, he'd never require tasks of me and I'd be free to explore magic any way I chose? I tried to imagine myself standing at the lectern inside the Arcane University walls, lecturing away on some abstruse principle or other. No, that was a ridiculous idea.

I began to suspect that Traven knew something about the future that I didn't. Which was scary. Did he think he was going to die or something?

No, _that_ was ridiculous. It was the sort of thinking that led to defeat by stupid decision-making. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense that we had Mannimarco cornered, and that Traven's "last task" would be completed over Worm-boy's body.

Yes, that was it. Mannimarco was going down for the count. Maybe Traven wanted me to hold his pack while he put the fear of the Nine up him.

I could imagine what he looked like: nine feet tall, dressed in black and red and skulls and bones, evil glowing eyes – and Traven pulling out all his tricks and reducing him to dust. Yep, that would be a fight to see, put the Arena to shame.

Rohssan jolted me out of my reverie by presenting me with newly repaired armour and thoroughly repatched greaves. "You know," says she, "you _really_ oughta stay away from stand-up fights, or learn s'more about smithing around enchantments." She was right and as such I left with a head full of almost, but not quite, understood concepts and about ten less septims.

That was the annoying thing. I could almost grasp what smiths said about weaves and warps and how that had to do with the price of fish, but the details eluded me.

Anyway I ended up in the Elven Gardens sewers. I don't know why, but it was oddly relieving to go up against enemies that weren't so life-threatening, nor spellcasters, nor undead. Picked up some nice bits here and there, but I also found something odd.

In one chamber, there was a table and chair, fresh candle lighting the scene. It looked like an odd place for a meeting, and there were gates that were locked. The locks looked new and fancy enough to foil lockpicks.

So I look around, and get the impression I'm being watched. Casting Watchfulness didn't help identify who, but I got the willies strong enough that I fled.

With most of the day gone I retired to my little shack on the waterfront and ran before the nightmares until dawn on Sundas.

In dawn's early light, I walked, armour and all, into the cold waters of Lake Rumare, until the water tasted sweet, and sat there on the bottom, playing with Starlight. Now there was a set of concepts I could and eventually did get a better grasp of.

Underwater was quiet, cleansing. The dark memories of Silorn – memories of pale stone framing hateful faces lit by hellish magics – began to fade as though the water was cleansing my mind as well as my body and armour. Truth be told, it was quite a peaceful experience.

At least until the local slaughterfish became curious about the bathing beauty and came over to investigate!

-o-o-o-o-

"Go on, off to your grove," says I that afternoon to the unicorn, "I'm not intending to leave for quite a while."

The unicorn whickered happily and trotted off southwards, head and tail high, while I stepped into the inn, my head and tail also high.

"Rra'jirrra!" S'jirra's welcoming cry was music to my ears as she almost knocked me over with her hug. "Oh my husband! Wherre have you been? You said you werre going to a council meeting and would be back _days_ ago! Oh, we've been so worrried..."

"Daughterr mine," Abhuki said from behind the counter, "Perrhaps if one werre to loosen one's grrip, one's husband could tell you why he has been so long. And also, think of the babe!"

S'jirra absorbed that and I was once again able to breathe, to the amusement of the patrons. She steered me to the chair in the corner and fetched some Dibella's cookies, then basically interrogated me.

I left little out. Alix joined the now quiet crowd as I described the small war of attrition I'd endured chasing down Falcar, and why I'd taken such pleasure in beating his brains out.

"So the corpse-humpers are enjoying a major setback," says I, "and I have it from Traven himself that there's just one more step to take, and –" I made a chopping motion. "– they're done for."

"And you will rreturrn and stay?" S'jirra asked me.

"Oh yes," says I, "that's what I'm going to do."

-o-o-o-o-

I spent the next few days in domestic bliss, Faregyl style; I learned more about the making of potato bread than I ever wanted to know; I learned about the arts of brewing; and S'jirra and I spent hours just enjoying each other's presence. Not carnally, just revelling in the other being near and alive.

S'jirra also had the dubious pleasure of morning heaves and other effects of pregnancy, and she complained about those with an almost ritual air, railing against the inevitable.

Sometimes I would invoke Awareness, and marvel at the tiny but very distinct separate life growing in her belly.

Unfortunately this idyll didn't last.


	28. The Final Task

**Chapter 27: The Final Task**

There have been all sorts of rumours concerning the way in which I was elevated to Arch-Mage, and most of them aren't even wrong. There's one wild conspiracy theory – I'm looking at _you,_ Ottus – suggesting I'm some sort of sleeper agent and that Wormboy is still... well, well, and waiting my signal to turn Tamriel into a necropolis or something. Others say I took Traven on in a magical duel that to judge by even the most sober accounts should have been seen clear out to Anvil.

I _do_ like the ones where Traven sneaks out to deal to Mannimarco under cover of invisibility, and loyal muggins here spots him and hares off to finish what he started.

The official lie is that Traven was affected for the worse by Mannimarco's magic, eventually becoming bedridden and dying, while Master-Wizard Ra'jirra took up the slack and championed Galerion's cause.

But it's time to come clean. The truth is worse.

-o-o-o-o-

"Councillors." Traven's face was grim as he regarded the revolting gem before him. "I've called you all here today to bear witness to my last actions as Arch-Mage."

There was almost an outcry at that, but he looked up. His gaze silenced us all like we had been muzzled. Then he spoke to history.

"Master-Wizard Ra'jirra delivered this thing to me on the morn of 10 Sun's Dusk. As of today, 13 Sun's Dusk, I now know, and have altered, what it was meant to do.

"As you all know, soul gems _normally_ capture _only_ the energy released when body and soul part ways. But this gem was different. It was intended to _literally_ capture a soul, like a surrogate body, but one that could then be... manipulated... by Mannimarco."

None of us spoke. The very idea was revolting. It was the worst allegations of Alessia Ottus or some similar damn fool made real.

"More specifically," and Traven gave us all that look again, "this gem was made to capture _me._"

I don't know who screamed first, but the general consensus was that the filthy thing should be destroyed. Traven just drew the gem to him and stood up straight, and I swear he... _growled... _with more than mortal voice. All our tongues fell silent as he just... more than... _stood_ there.

"So. Three ayes in favour of this gem's destruction... and one no. The noes _have it_." He looked down at the gem. "Who recalls the theme of _The Prayers of Baranat?_"

We all looked at each other, but it was Vonus who finally spoke, querulous, thoroughly bewildered. "Um... Baranat finally gets his reward... but doesn't like what he gets?"

Traven smiled. It wasn't nice.

"Exactly," says he, "and Mannimarco's going to enjoy the same experience when Ra'jirra fronts up and goes to kick his arse."

And I can only sit there and stare. After about a million years I was able to squeak, "_Me?_"

"You," confirms he, "Since you're the most two-fisted of all of us. I'm too old," and now I realise he's right: for all his clanking about in daedric his hair's silver and his face lined; Vonus is a sot; Otranto is more suited to a laboratory than – hang on, what's this? Otranto's glaring hard at Traven, and Traven's the same.

"Was there something you wanted to say?" Traven asks mildly, but his eyes promise hell. And Otranto gets the message and drops it, whatever it was.

Raminus, being the headmaster, is totally out of contention.

"Now, effective immediately, Ra'jirra is by my authority Arch-Mage of the Imperial Mage's Guild. His first act as Arch-Mage will be to confront and destroy Mannimarco, the King of Worms, in his lair – which is Echo Cave. Map!"

I just stare at him until he snaps his fingers and there's my hands handing him my map. As he marks a point northwest of Bruma, he continues to instruct me.

"With this gem in your possession, once it's prepared, you will be impervious to his attempts to enthrall you. When the arrogant Lord High Corpse-Humper fails, that is when you shall _strike_."

A little snicker went around the table; evidently my term for our enemy had got around.

"Right then. My last duty as Arch-Mage will be to prepare this gem. Once I have, only Ra'jirra is to touch it." He looks around, then at me, and his eyes...

I saw resolve, kindness, and was that fear?

"Lead your fellow mages, Arch-Mage Ra'jirra, and lead them well. The future rests on your shoulders." He stood up with the gem in one hand. "Farewell, my friend."

_Friend?_

I was so surprised by being called 'friend' by Traven that I completely failed to comprehend the meaning of the red and purple magics that enrobed him until the other councillors had been shouting for about a full minute, gathered where Traven now lay.

"_Quiet!_" Raminus yelled with all the righteous wrath of a headmaster demanding order from a rambunctious class. "This is getting us nowhere! Arch-Mage! What do we do?"

Traven didn't respond. Raminus came over to me and shook me by the shoulder.

"Arch-Mage!"

And I just stare at him and say, "The Arch-Mage is over there," in a dopey voice.

"Traven's dead!" Raminus yells at me, "You're Arch-Mage now!"

I stood up, pushing him away, and tottered over to where Traven lay. Vonus was wheezing like a bellows and pumping a surprising amount of healing magics into him, but I could tell even from here it was too late.

"We should lay him in state," Otranto said in a dazed voice, "shouldn't we lay him in state?"

And I have a think with those parts of my brain still operating and she's right. It wouldn't look good to have Traven found laying on the floor like... like a common bandit.

"Yes," says I, "let's get him in his bed. If..." and another part of my brain wakes up, "if anyone asks to see him, just say he's indisposed, all right?"

And that's what we did. The worst part was removing his armour ("Sick men don't wear armour," Otranto said) and putting it away. Without any obvious wounds, Traven looked as though he was, indeed, merely sleeping – except for the traditional coins on the eyes.

There would later be another little conspiracy regarding retrieving his body and getting it to his tomb. We kept his coffin closed, citing the state his corpse was in. And to be honest, by the time I got back, he was getting a little ripe.

-o-o-o-o-

Back in the council chambers, I regarded the gem, which lay where it had fallen from Traven's hand. The thing didn't just glitter blackly with energy, it fairly glowed; but nevertheless I swallowed hard and picked it up.

_About time, _a familiar voice said in my head, _good thinking about a cover story. Shouldn't we be getting along?_

And I just kneel there catching flies.

_Knock it off, furface! We haven't got all year. Make sure Raminus swears everybody to silence until _you_ come up with a good cover story. Sneaking out during guard changeover? Seems to happen in all the popular trash._

And I blink at that and realise Raminus is speaking: "...until the threat is over. Once we know Mannimarco's done for, we'll formally recognise Ra'jirra as Arch-Mage. Until then, I can keep the Guild on an even keel."

"You?" It sounded like Otranto. "Why you?"

"Because I've served the Arch-Mage directly far longer than you have," he was clearly angry. "But I am _not_ going against Traven's wishes, and –"

I gave my opinion of that. It was a fine, blunt, earthy opinion, and everyone dropped their knitting to stare at me.

"The Arch-Mage," says I carefully, "is alive and unwell." Which wasn't entirely untrue. "He's made his intentions clear, and we should stand together against the necromancer threat. If we don't, we fall. Got it?"

They got it, some slower than others.

"Traven chose us as councillors for a reason. And I suspect that each of us, alone, couldn't govern our way out of a wet sack, but together we can. So stow the knives until I return with Mannimarco's head, or his balls, whichever he thinks with, all right?"

"His head, I think," Vonus says suddenly from around the contents of a wine bottle.

"Come again?"

"His head," Vonus says again, "Since we don't know if he still _has_ balls after all these years, do we?"

It wasn't much of a joke, but we needed the (slightly hysterical) laugh.


	29. The Road to Echo Cave

**Chapter 28: The Road to Echo Cave**

Some wit once wrote 'getting there is half the fun'. Well, it might be on a pleasure-boat with plenty of septims and good company, but not when you're on a mission.

My initial intent was to simply find Echo Cave and charge in, but as the unicorn and I rounded the north side of Bruma, the sounds of fighting came to our ears. The unicorn actually stopped dead, and I could feel it trembling.

Then I saw a flying Khajiit.

Shortly afterwards I saw the reason why: an immense white minotaur, nine feet high at least, and it was looking at me. With a warhammer being held in just _one_ hand.

The next thing I knew, the unicorn screamed, reared and spun, throwing me off, before bolting away, and there I am on the ground with this big thing stomping towards me!

Well, it made sense to hang fire on Echo Cave until this minotaur was dealt to, but first I had to get up before it stomped on me. What followed was a desperate backwards scramble, as I tried to extract my Mage's Staff out of my pack without getting bailed up against a tree or something.

Once before I'd downed a minotaur with staff and spell, but that was months ago, and just a regular common or garden sort. _This_ beast was a lot tougher, and soon I was juggling my staff in one hand and magicka potions in the other. I'd paralyse the monster, then let fly with two Discharges before it got back to its feet, then either keep running like hell or swig another potion.

And just to add to the fun, arrows started whizzing about.

One of my Discharges missed the monster – at least I think it did – and I heard an outraged yell of "I'm on your side!" Legion! Great. Now if only he'd hit this damn beast instead of _me._

And so the three, then four of us, made our mad parade along Bruma's north wall, until the creature finally lay still. Both Legionnaires (actually one was a forester) put their weapons away and we all regarded the foe.

"Never thought I'd see a frost titan this close to Bruma," says the legionnaire thoughtfully, "You're lucky we were dealing to bandits."

"Yeah," says the forester.

"Maybe it thought I was after its food," says I thoughtfully.

"Nine!" shudders the legionnaire.

"Yeah," says the forester matter-of-factly.

"Well, it's quite the tale to tell eh?" says I.

"I could drink off that for a week," the legionnaire grins.

"Yeah," says the forester unenthusiastically.

"Anyway, I need to find Echo Cave," says I, "Any pointers?"

"I'm not sure where that is," says the legionnaire.

"Applewatch," points the forester, then he adds, "Westward. Rock arch. Stendarr Peak. Right into the dead trees."

"Man of few words, huh?"

"Yeah," says the forester.

"I want a few with you," the legionnaire says to the forester, pointing at an arrow jutting out of one pauldron.

"Yeah?" says the forester pugnaciously.

-o-o-o-o-

I found some bandits before I found Applewatch, and next to the gate I found a couple of sprigs of wormwood. Contemplating it, I remembered one of its essences appeared to be invisibility. It had _killed_ me that I'd been unable to identify another ingredient way back then –

"Tinder polypore," I said into the cold night, breath steaming like my irritation. I'd plucked one days ago, more out of idleness than anything, and of course, _now_ I was miles away from my alchemy gear, I realised what its third essence was.

And then there was the tremendous drain on not only my nerves, but my staff, that the frost titan had caused. I already had enough potions in my pack that I clanked if I didn't watch my step. I needed to think through what to do once I found Echo Cave.

It didn't take me long to decide to press on, find the cave, then decide what to do.

-o-o-o-o-

Just past the unmistakeable rock arch – actually more like a dolmen – Stendarr Peak rose to my right. So did a highwayman, of all people. How on Nirn anyone could make a living in banditry up here baffled me. It wasn't as though there was daily traffic between Bruma and Skyrim these days.

Beyond, I could see the dead trees, a whole valley's worth, as the forester had stated; presumably this was the valley to Echo Cave. A cold wind – yes, even colder than the rest of the Jerralls – was blowing from the north. I've been told that this valley somehow manages to funnel extremely cold air down itself, freezing everything within. Makes sense – not even the King of Worms would want a big stretch of blight appearing out of nowhere and pointing him out.

I watched the lone guard wandering about below me as I carefully withdrew the Bow of Jolts, and equally carefully primed an arrow with poison.

Screw invisibility. Losing Falcar and the giant crystal turd might make Wormy decide he had nothing to lose. And since I was already here...

I introduced myself to the guard, and he was kind enough to provide a key and let me in.


	30. Mannimarco

**Chapter 29: Mannimarco**

There was only one corpse-humper in the huge, water-filled cavern, for which I was grateful. I could see four braziers keeping him warm, a fancy throne, and a table with some stuff on it. Then there was the décor, giant bony fingers poking out of the ground and necromancer banners everywhere. Evidently I had found Mannimarco's lair.

So I creep closer, and see that Mannimarco looks like an ordinary Altmer, picking his nose with one hand and spelling me with the other.

I felt my knees almost buckle under my weight, so I do my best to stand as the King of Bogies ambles over.

"I'm surprised Bolor was unsuccessful in delaying you," sneers he, flicking his wriggling pickings at me, "Oh well; I shall reanimate him once we are done here."

"He and his mates had a bloody good go though," says I grudgingly.

And he gives me a look over and regards my battered gear and equally battered person. "I suppose they did," says he grudgingly, "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your nauseating presence?"

I think for a bit and "Something to do with the late Arch-Mage Traven," seems to be a good answer.

"Late?" Mannimarco's eyebrows rise. "Oh, yes, you must be his star pupil. I am disappointed to see that he could not face me himself."

"Being dead does that," says I.

"I have met so many of his predecessors over the years, you know," and one of those huge gems emerges from his robe, along with a powerful odour. "I developed a particular fondness for Galerion, _ill_-preserved though he may be."

And he strokes the gem in a way that made my hackles rise, like he was skinning a deer.

"But here you are instead." He puts the gem away again. "Skilled enough to make it this far, which speaks volumes about you. Perhaps you'll be as useful to me as Traven would."

Skilled, to be honest, I didn't know about. _Stubborn_ was more like it. I had, by my count, slaughtered my way through about twenty corpse-humpers and about thirty of their dear departed friends; chewed through all my varla stones and almost all of my loaded soul gems; and finally run out of repair kits for my armour. All I wanted to do was knock this swine's block off and go home.

As such, my response was a quite intelligent "How?"

Bet you thought I was going to say _what,_ didn't you?

"Oh, I will make you another in a long tradition of Worm Thralls, and take my time in studying you," says he airily, "Your very soul will be forfeit to me."

_Now_ I exclaimed, "What?"

"Power, my dear friend. I seek power, and so I acquire and study those who have some degree of it." And Mannimarco smiles as if that explains everything and if I say 'what' again like that I'll regret it.

"We are after the same things, your guild and I. Yet you worry about 'good' and 'evil' and do not accept they are manifestations of the same thing. So you brand me a villain, and make vain attempts to destroy me. I watch, and I wait, and I collect you when you come for me."

And he clasps his hands and looks smugly at me and I look stonily back at him. Now I _know_ he's two cups short of a bottle.

"Instead of drawing Traven out, I have received _you _instead." His disgust was obvious. "Perhaps I shall personally go and collect him when we are done here."

"No need," says I, "He's in my pack."

And Mannimarco looks at me like _I'm_ the mad bugger.

"The work at Silorn?" hints I.

"Silorn?" And Mannimarco perks up. "The special gem worked?"

"It certainly did," says I, "he's up near the top, if I can get to him..."

"I'll do that," and Mannimarco comes closer, and he's not only smelly, he's _cold._ Almost as cold as one of those damnable thrice-accursed spectral beings. His rummaging knocks me finally to my knees, then he cries out in pleasure as he extracts Traven's crystal home.

"My dear chap," says he delightedly, "please accept my apologies! When I heard about Silorn, I honestly thought that I would have to move openly – Bruma's lovely this time of year, or so I'm told – and a castle would be so much nicer than this blasted cavern. All this time I though you were Traven's lapdog, and you've been biding your time!" And he looks fondly at Traven and prattles reekingly on.

"It's a pity about Falcar and Caranya, I guess, but frankly they were too arrogant for their own good. Not in the same league as Lien Valeth and his Putrid Hand rabble, but too arrogant. And you did what I was going to do anyway. No, wait, I would have reanimated them as Worm Thralls. Serve them right, keep them as reminders to my followers to stay in line.

"Anyway," says he as he regards me again, "I think you and I will work splendidly together. There's just one act to seal the bargain, so –"

And he steps closer, Traven still in his grasp, claps one icy hand on my shoulder and opens his mouth.

And opens it wide.

Impossibly wide.

Inside was a sight – a hellish mixture of rot and magic – I had never seen before and never, ever, want to see (or smell) again. Volanaro saw it. Saw the _things_ inside – that only looked like worms – as they started to emerge – towards _me_.

And it was about then that Traven made his move.

There was a flash of light. Bright, white, warm, clean light that pushed away the worms in the meat, that sent Mannimarco's jaw slamming back up into his head hard enough to knock a couple of teeth loose. Better still, he almost somersaulted as he went flat on his back.

And suddenly I could stand up again.

I swapped my bow for the Mace of Jolts as I closed on the not-an-Altmer, but he'd already lurched to his feet, rotten blood dribbling from his mouth as he spluttered "You – you –" and various unkind terms. Gobbets of Conjuration were already depositing – Nine help me, I counted _five!_ – undead horrors.

To make things worse, a ring of giant skeletal claws had risen out of the ground, blocking any escape. There was only one thing for me to do.

_Fusozay Var Var, _as we say.

However short it was going to be.


	31. Mannimarco's Funeral

**Chapter 30: Mannimarco's Funeral**

Traven was there. I've no idea how I knew, but the old ratbag was there. It was the only explanation for why the lich sort of twisted from the waist, as though somebody grabbed it by the shoulders, and zapped the spectre, who didn't approve at all.

That left the ghost, the skeleton, Wormy, and me.

_The scum's wearing powerful robes, _I distinctly heard Traven's voice between my ears, _with strong reflection enchantments. I – _then he shouldered me aside as the dead elf fired off a nasty looking spell that blew the skeleton apart like a cobweb of bone.

So I charge in with my mace ready and Mannimarco's eyes widen as he realises he's getting bailed up in a corner. I manage to get a smack in on his shoulder, but like Traven said, I ended up briefly joined to the sod by an arc of lightning.

And my matching shoulder didn't like it either.

_Moving a bit fast are we? _Traven asked sarcastically. _Perhaps we should have spent a year working on our spellcraft instead?_

I didn't answer, since the King of Worms had smacked me with one of his spells as he fled. I collapsed to the floor under paralysis magic, unable to even take a swing at him as he passed, raising a hand filled with red.

Then he yelled in pain as Traven's spirit grabbed his ears.

I didn't bother laughing as Mannimarco flailed at his head; I grabbed the old Mace of Jolts and went to take a swing. Since he was dead, he tended to need a lot of tenderising.

As I swung, he managed to forget his ears long enough to try and kick me. So I altered my swing; it hurt, but his knee was more bung than mine now. As he tried to right himself, I chugged a health potion and turned to the approaching spectre.

I wasn't expecting the creature to halt and lower its claymore though.

"I've seen you before, haven't I?" it asked in decidedly daedric tones.

"Markynhaz Gadaz'tor?" replies I, "I didn't recognise you."

"I'm not surprised," says he, "oh, and there's a few Kyn who're grateful to you."

"Wait a minute..." one moment I'm fighting the King of Worms, now I'm talking to a dremora in a ghostly shell. "Are you saying all those spectral warriors are trapped dremora?"

"Yes," replies he, "we don't know how, but sometimes the Kyn find themselves imprisoned in these cold bodies in the mortal plane. It's bearable if there are others with you, but eventually the Pull becomes too much... defeat in battle is the only way."

_Well bugger me! _Traven said in wonder, _live and learn._

And I sneak a glance over my shoulder; Mannimarco's got to his feet but he's catching flies. Nine know he has the gob for it.

"Well, you're not spontaneous," says I, "and that thing in the robes is the one who summoned you. Want to help me kill him?"

Spectral teeth flashed as he cried, "Sounds like a plan!"

What followed was ugly. Gadaz'tor charged in with absolutely no regard for his safety while I attempted to juggle getting my own blows in, swigging health potions, and keeping out of the Markynhaz's way.

Between my mace and the dremora's claymore, Mannimarco was in trouble. So were we, unfortunately, thanks to the reflection powers of his gear. Every time we landed a blow or a spell, it bounced back on us. Soon I could feel my sweetbreads screaming, backed up by my arm joints, accompanied by the shaking of weakened legs, and there was a wetness inside my helm matching where the Mace of Jolts had ripped away a chunk of his scalp.

Gadaz'tor bellowed in triumph as he raised his claymore for an overhead strike guaranteed to split the King of Worms down the middle; Mannimarco himself was wobbling on his knees, staring concussed up at the Markynhaz.

So of _course_ the bloody summons wore off right then and there!

I didn't hesitate to finish the job. Up comes I and down comes the mace, sending chunks of face flying. My vision clouded with reflected pain and blood but I kept swinging until I simply fell where I stood, twitching as the shock magics dissipated.

_That, _Traven remarked, _was the most bloody disgraceful exhibition of macecraft I have ever seen._

And I said nothing. I was too busy trying to work out if I was dead or not.

_Maybe you should join the Fighters' Guild? You know, learn how to actually kill people without getting killed yourself._

The shock-caused quaking subsided, but the anguish in my face didn't. Several of my teeth felt loose, my eyes were filled with blood, and I suspected my nose was broken. That sort of thing makes it difficult for a man to remember his healing spells.

_Then again,_ Traven went on, _I know you didn't ask me, but maybe you should think about introducing some warcraft classes into the curriculum. Nine knows I've dragged my heels on that._

I spat out a glob of bloody spit, coughed a prayer to Stendarr, and felt his mercy wrap about me and take away some of my pain. Now I could see, through a red fog, a lump of cloth surrounded by dark fluid.

_Maybe I was too impatient,_ Traven spoke again, _maybe I should have let you develop your skills more. Gods know you need to, since I won't be around to hold your hand from now on. But hang it all, this was a crisis! Hey – are you listening to me, fur-licker?_

I wasn't. Instead I was fumbling for a vial in my pack, scattering potions of shielding and poisons of all sorts as I groped for a particular sort; deep pinkish-red, with a meaty scent. I finally found it, jerked out the stopper, and somehow managed to put the bottle to my lips – which hurt – and swallowed the contents – which also hurt. Silver relief spun from my stomach to my skin, and I was finally able to open my eyes and make sense of what I was seeing.

The cloth was the robes and hood of Mannimarco, but now they cloaked a shapeless mass of bones and decomposing flesh. My nose still being pretty stuffed up, I was grateful I couldn't smell anything. As I watched, the unnaturally fast disintegration of the corpse finally concluded in dust and ugly stains. From inside the hood, the caved-in skull of the King of Worms goggled crosseyed at its jawbone in front of it.

My legs finally agreed to support me again as I managed to pick myself up. "We did it," I said thickly, then hawked up more bloody phlegm before groping for another potion. "We bloody did it."

_Bloody's right,_ Traven remarked, _seeing as if it wasn't for me and that dremora – _

"What's done is done," snarls I, anger shoving aside pain. I stomp over to Mannimarco's corpse and yank off hood, robes, his staff and also a daedric dagger still in its sheath.

I still have them, trophies of my, Traven's, and Markynhaz Gadaz'tor's victory over the King of Worms.

_Well then, _Traven said almost sadly, this time from a point in front of me and to my right, _one last thing I need you to do._

"What?" is my intelligent response.

_Take that club of yours to that big soul gem. Just in case someone gets ideas about stepping into Mannimarco's shoes._

"Not to mention the rubbish said about trapping souls," That made sense. I placed the gem on a handy rock, braced myself, then let the revolting artifact have it.

Bards are encouraged to embroider on the fact that the gem basically shattered with a loud crunch.

_Righto, _and Traven's voice was more distant now, a_nd now we part. Well, until you fall off your perch anyway. Don't hurry._

"What?" is my intelligent response.

_Mannimarco was the only reason I stayed around, you idiot,_ says he, _and now he's finally finished, there's no need for me to hang around, is there?_

"But what will I do about the Guild?" asks I, "I've no idea what to do, I –"

_Oh, stop whining!_ Traven's voice was getting fainter. _You can read, can't you? Here's a hint: speak to Carvain about all this. Polus too. I'm not sticking around, I'm not allowed. Besides, _adds he with his old irritation, _I told _you_ to lead the Mage's Guild as _you _see_

And his spirit left.

Slowly, I retraced my steps through the caverns until I found a bedroll, then passed out for a little while.

-o-o-o-o-

Later in the day, I arrived at the walls of Bruma. It occurred to me that I should let the Countess know that the necromancer threat was gone.

So later I'm in the throne room waiting my turn to address her ladyship when I recognise the voice of the mage addressing her.

"...thus at the very least, the building should be repaired to save face and," and here Raminus pauses, "prevent unkind allegations against your rule."

"I am _sure_ you have _my_ reputation in mind," the Countess Carvain responded waspishly, "but seeing as it was _my_ city that was violated, and that it was _my_ guardsmen who risked _their_ lives to –"

Which I took as my cue.

"What about me?" says I striding up, "Here I am, the poor bloody Arch-Mage, nearly getting killed a dozen times over, not including about five minutes before the King of Worms finally bit the dust?"

And the two stare at me.

"Which was about five hours ago," finishes I, "so how's about you get your people to refurbish the guildhall while I get my people to fill it?"

And the Countess does a pretty good imitation of a landed slaughterfish while Raminus manages to get his brain into gear.

"Arch-Mage! Mannimarco is defeated?"

"Am I dead?"

"No?"

"Well in that case, he is. He was still dead when I stripped his bones and left." And I have a little think, scratch my nose as casually as possible and add, "Setting a good example for the other bastards I offed in there as well."

"Where's 'there'?" asks the Countess.

"Echo Cave," says I.

"Well, not that I... don't believe you..." and she looks my battered self up and down, "but I think I'd best send a party out to investigate for myself before I decide."

"Suit yourself," shrugs I, "me, I'm going home and having a well-earned collapse."

"I've a better idea," says Raminus, "have you tried the Jerall View?" And he blinks and adds, "My apologies, Countess, by your leave?"

She waved us away and the last I heard she was calling for a bird or something.

-o-o-o-o-

"Got another room free?" asks Raminus to the innkeep. The Jerall View was a homely place, warm and cozy. And as it turned out, he did have another room.

Raminus escorted me downstairs into a well-appointed room and quizzed me about what had taken place as I divested myself of my gear prior to diving into bed for another nap.

"So," says he at last, "that's the end of the King of Worms. Stay as long as you need in the morning; I want to go on ahead and prepare for the ceremony."

"Ceremony?" is my enquiry.

"You'll need to be formally sworn in as Arch-Mage," says he, "I've been doing some research into the matter. As far as I can tell, the Emperor will ask you a lot of traditional questions, and you just say 'I will' or something like that. Then I'll send messages to the other guildhalls letting them know you're the new Arch-Mage. That's another formality," grimaces he, "since the Black Horse Courier will get there first."

"Then can I go home?"

"I can't stop you. Just be there by noon tomorrow, all right? We don't want to keep his Imperial Majesty waiting."

"Fine," says I, about to remove my greaves, "but before that, if you don't mind, I have a meeting with some nightmares."

"If you need anything just scream," says Raminus and leaves before I can heave a boot at him.

With the greaves off I finally crawled into bed and passed out for the second time in one day.


	32. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"And so the next day I left Bruma, got formally sworn in as Arch-Mage, and came home."

The subject of my work shrugged, skipping over what was a well-described ceremony in which Ra'jirra, most importantly, knelt before the Emperor himself, swore undying fealty to him and the Empire, and was officially recognised before the entire faculty of the Arcane University as Arch-Mage.

Afterward, there was a memorial service held for the late Arch-Mage Hannibal Traven, who had, officially, been struck by a long-acting curse of some kind while examining an artifact retrieved from a necromancer stronghold. It had taken me a long while to regain my composure after learning just _how_ Traven had _really_ succumbed. Indeed, there were issues raised that led to me spending more time at the Chapel of Dibella than I usually did.

What Ra'jirra also skipped over was several months where if anyone wanted to speak with the Arch-Mage, they had to make the journey to Faregyl and its inn, where the Arch-Mage and his increasingly pregnant wife provided an often cool reception. Ra'jirra was, after all, more at home on the farm than in the council chamber, and for the first two years of his regime would only visit the Imperial Isle if there was no alternative – and make those trips as short as possible!

One reason for his reclusiveness was his family, one of whom was sitting on his lap with a predictable expression on his face. J'dargo is a rambunctious five year old kit, and his parents and I agree that, assuming he doesn't get himself killed, he's a sure recruit for either the Legion or the Fighter's Guild.

Sure enough, J'dargo asked the question that all bedtime storytellers dread. "And then what happened?"

"And then," his father looked solemnly down at him, "you were born. And now..." he paused dramatically.

J'dargo stared at him, breathless.

"It's time for _you_ to go to bed," Ra'jirra finished in a firm tone.

In between J'dargo's birth and his far more recent bedtime, Ra'jirra had decreed a number of remarkable and in many cases disruptive changes in the way the Mage's Guild was run. The SCARE Act was passed through, which, while sometimes violently objected to by the more hermit-like of wizards, managed to reveal knowledge that would otherwise have been lost with its discoverers. Apprentices are now more likely to be found rounding out their skills at the guildhalls instead of sitting through lectures at the Arcane University. Similarly, the scholars are now able to educate at a more elevated level – although, as Ra'jirra said to me, "I've still no idea what they're blabbing about."

I was most surprised to be approached by the Arch-Mage about writing his memoirs, not only to his satisfaction, but while still capturing his basic character as he insisted, was a great challenge. "I don't want to be remembered as a stuffed suit of armour," were his precise words.

Ra'jirra is often earthy – far earthier than I dare put down on paper – blunt to the point of outrageousness, but at the same time has a fierce loyalty to guildmate, kin, the Nine and Empire. I for one wish him a long, happy and prosperous life both in and outside the Mage's Guild.

- Quill-Weave

4 Heartfire 3E438


End file.
